/ 


T  H  E 


SOUTHERN 


Poems  of  the  War 


nnb  §lrnnujcb  bjr 

Miss   EMILY  V.  MASON. 


B  A  L  T  I  M  0  II E  : 
JOHN   M  u  it  r  H  Y  &  Co.,  P  u  B  L  i  s  H  E  u  s, 

1S2  BALTIMORE    STXIKET. 

1  8  G  7  . 


.l'i'.-i-  \i     bet  tf  QpfftaJtaft,  ir'  the  J7ear  18G6' 
BY    JOHN*    M  u  u  P  n  v, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Maryland. 


THESE    POEMS, 
THE  OFFSPRING  OF  SOUTHERN  HEARTS, 

SUNG  BY  SOUTHERN  FIRESIDES,  AND  SOUTHERN  CAMP  FIRES, 

ARE  AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED 

To  th£  Southern  Soldiers, 

Bv  ONE  WHO  ADMIRED  THEIR  HEROISM,  SYMPATHIZED  WITH 
•     THEIR  SUCCESSES,  MOURNED  THEIR  SUFFERINGS, 
AND  SHARED  THEIR  PRIVATIONS. 

"  No  marble  slab  or  graven  stone 

Their  gallant  deeds  to  tell; 
No  monument  to  mark  the  spot 

Where  they  with  glory  fell : 
Their  names  shall  yet  a  herald  find         * 

In  every  tongue  of  fame, 
When  valley,  stream,  and  minstrel  voice, 

Shall  ring  with  their  acclaim." 


M71851 


PREFACE. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  war  I  conceived  the  design  of  collect 
ing  and  preserving  the  various  War  Poems,  which  (born  of  the 
excited  state  of  the  public  mind,)  then  inundated  our  newspapers. 
For  a  time,  I  carried  out  this  intention,  but  a  very  busy  life  soon 
obliged  me  to  relinquish  it;  so  that  I  am  indebted  to  the  kind 
ness  of  friends  for  most  of  the  later  Poems  in  this  collection. 

Travelling  since  the  war  through  many  portions  of  the  South, 
I  have  heard  every  where  the  wish  expressed,  that  these  Poems 
should  be  collected  and  published  in  a  form  so  cheap  as  to  be 
accessible  to  all.  This  desire.  I  have  endeavored  to  fulfil. 

Besides  a  "Memorial1'  volume,  to  preserve  these  "songs,"  expres 
sive  of  the  hopes  and  triumphs  and  serrows  of  a  "lost  cause,"  I 
have  another  design — to  aid  by  its  sale  tin,  Education  of  the  Daugh 
ters  of  our  desolate  land;  to  fit  a  certain  number  for  Teachers,  that 
they  may  take  to  their  homes  and  spread  amongst  the  different 
Southern  States  the  knowledge  of  those  accomplishments  which 
else  may  be  denied  them. 

I  appeal  to  all  good  people  to  aid  me  in  this  effort  to  provide 
for  the  women  of  the  South,  (the  futifre  mothers  of  the  country.) 
the  timely  boon  of  education.  Many  of  these  children  are  the 
orphans  of  soldiers,  from  whom  they  have  inherited  nothing  but 
an  honorable  name,  and  the  last  hours  of  more  than  one  of  whom 
I  was  enabled  to  soothe  by  the  promise  that  I  would  do  something 
for  the  little  ones  they  left  behind  them.  That  promise,  I  trust, 
this  humble  effort  may  enable  me  in  part  to  redeem. 

EMILY  V.  MASOX. 


1* 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Southern  Cross St.  George  Tucker  13 

Address  to  President  Davis Mm.  E.  K.  Blunt  15 

Southern  Chant  of  Defiance Mrs.  C.  A.   Warfidd  17 

"Written  before  the  Secession  of  Va Mrs.  Rebecca  Tabb  19 

The  Fall  of  Sumter,  April,  1861 4.  L.  D.  21 

A  Cry  to  Anns 23 

Poem  on  the  Death  of  "Jackson" 25 

Dead  Jackson 20 

Rallying  Song  of  the  Virginians Swan  Archer  Talley  27 

1861 28 

1776  —  1861 29 

II. —  Seventy-six  and  Sixty-one 31 

Yes,  Call  us  Rebels  !  Tis  the  Name Albert  Pike  32 

Rebels!  'Tis  a  Holy  Name Rev.  Mr.  Garesche  34 

Hymn— God  Save  the  South Geo.  IL  Miles  36 

Anthem  of  the  Confederate  States 33 

God  Save  the  South R.  Agnew  40 

Hurrah  ! A  Misxissippian  41 

The  Ship  of  State Mrs.  C.  A.  Warfidd  42 

The  Southron's  War  Song J.  A.  Wagner  45 

"On  to  Richmond" Jno.  R.  Thompson  46 

Battle  Eve , 51 

Manassas Mrs.  C.  A.  Warfield  52 

"Our  Left" 53 

The  Battle  of  Manassas Mrs.  Clarke  55 

Virginia's  Jewels Miss  Rebecca  Powell  58 

Maryland! Jas.  R.  Randall  60 

Charge  of  the  Night  Brigade '  63 

"There's  Life  in  the  Old  Land  Yet" F.  K.  Howard  65 

"  Independence  Day" 66 

Are  we  Free? *. Jas.  R.  Breioer  67 

The  Kentucky  Partizan Paul  II.  Hayne  70 

John  Morgan's  Credentials. 73 

The  Toast  of  Morgan's  Men Capt.  Thorpe  73 

Louisiana .- 74 

Charles  B.  Dreux Jas.  R.  Randall  75 


8  CONTEXTS. 

PAGE 

BeauregarJ Mrs.  C.  A.  Warf/e'd    77 

Beauregard's  Appeal 79 

Sabbath  Bells Charleston  Mercury     81 

March  on  !  Carolinians,  inarch  on  ! Mrs.  Farley     S2 

Carolina Mrs.  Anna.  Pet/re  Dennica     84 

The  Tennessee  Exile's  Song S7 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Col.  B.  F.  Terry J.  li.  Barrick     89 

The  Stranger's  Death 1)1 

Song  of  the  Texas  Rangers 9.°, 

The  Flag  of  the  Lone  Star Tenella     95 

There's  Life  in  the  Old  Land   Yet Jan.  li.  Randall     07 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night 99 

Fast  Day,  Nov.,  1SG1 Miss  R.  Powell  101 

The  War-Christian's  Thanksgiving S.  T.  Wallis  103 

Christmas  Carol,  for  18G2 Mrs.  M.  J.  Preston  105 

A  Picture Savannah  Morning  Acie.s  109 

A  Southern  Scene— 18G2 Ill 

Song  of  the  Freedman* A.  li.  Watson  114 

The  Unreturning 117 

ZollicoiTer H.  L.  Flank  119 

The  Burial  of  Capt.  0.  Jennings  Wise Accomac  120 

Fort  Donelson— The  Siege,  Feb.,  1S62 Mrs.  C.  A.  Warfcld  121 

The  Battle  of  Hampton  Ptoads Tenella  123 

The  Turtle 125 

Albert  Sidney  Johnston Fleming  James  127 

Lines  written  during  these  Gloomy  Times J.  H.  Hewitt  134 

Away  with  the  Dastards  who  whine  of  Defeat Paul  II.  Hayne  l.°,6 

Steady  and  Reader 137 

Prayer 139 

A  Sunday.  Reverie Jas.  R.  Randall.  141 

The  Soldier's  Farewell  to  his  Wife Wm.  K.  Campbell  144 

The  Soldier's  Grave Pearl  146 

The  Soldier's  Last  Combat Mrs.  Eliza  E.  Harper  117 

Home  Again Jeff.  Thompson  149 

My  Father Henry  R.  Jackson  150 

My  Wife  and  Child.  ...* Ibid.  152 

A  Mother's  Prayer 154 

The  Mother  to  her  Son  in  the  Trenches  at  Petersburg..  W.  D.  Porter  156 

The  Ladies  of  Richmond Charleston  Courier  15S 

Rode's  Brigade  Charge  at  Seven  Pines W.  P.  C.  1GI 

Lines 163 


CONTENTS.  0 

J'AGE 

"Information  Wanted" 165 

The  Drummer  Boy /as.  -R.  Brewer  1G7 

The  Old   Brigade. ". Maurice  D'Bdl  170 

The  Burial  of  Latane    Jno   R.  Thompson  173 

The  Beleaguered  City 7?o.sa  Vertner  Jeffrey  175 

Richmond  on  the  James Annie  Marie  Weltn/  177 

Missing ISO 

The  Dying  Soldier 182 

Reading  the  List 184 

The  Lonely  Grave Mrs.  C.  A.  Ball  185 

The  Jacket,  of  Gray — To  those  who  wore  it Ibid.  ISO 

"  You'll  tell  her,  wont  you  ?" 11)1 

Somebody's  Darling Afr.s-.s  Marie  Laconic  102 

The  Rear-Guard  of  the  Army Iris  J94 

Heart  Victories Soldier's  wife  196 

Address  to  the  Exchanged  Prisoner? S.  T.  Wat  Us  108 

Fiat  Just  ilia Lady  of  Baltimore  200. 

Lines  written  in   Fort  Warren .' C.  W.  B.  202 

The  Captain's   Story 204 

The  Debt 200 

Butler's  Proclamation Paul  II.  Hm/nc.  208 

The  Guerrillas S.  T.  Wallis  211 

At  Fort  Pillow Jas.  R.  Randall  214 

Bombardment  of  Vicksburg 217 

Gone  to  the  Battle-field , 219 

The  Virginians  of  the  Valley Ticknor  222 

The  Valley  of  the  Shenandoah 223 

The  Reaper 224 

Dirge  for  Ashby • 226 

Ashbv John  R.  Thompson  228 

Gen.  John  B.  Floyd Eulalie  230 

Virginia's  Dead   232 

My  Order Gordon  McCabe  235 

The  Southern  Cross 237 

Hymn  to  the  National  Flag, Mrs.  M.  J.  Preston  239 

The  Countersign 241 

Our  "Cottage  by   Iho  Sea" Prisoner  in  Fort  Lafayette  243 

The  Quaker  Girl's  Farewell  to  her  Southern   Lover. 

Mrs.  Eliza  E.  Harper  245 

A  Confederate  Officer  to  his  Ladye  Love Moj.  McKiri^ht  247 

The  Homespun  Dress 249 


10  COXTKNTS. 


Cannon  Song 252 

On  a  Raid Ikey  Ingle,  253 

Coming  at  Last George  H.  Miles  250 

Beyond  the  Potomac Paul  II.  Hayne  257 

The  Southern  Oath Rosa  Vcrtncr  Jeffrey  2UO 

The  Brave  at  Home 262 

Little  Footsteps Mary  J.  Upahur  263 

"Minding  the  Gap" Mollie  E.  Moore  204 

Why  the  Robin's  Breast  was  Red Jas.  E.  Randall  "2(\A 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Annie  Carter  Lee Tcnclla  269 

At  the  Last 271 

The  Long  Ago Phi Io  Henderson  272 

Christmas— 1S63 Henry  Timrod  274 

Charleston Ibid  277 

By  the  Camp  Fire Viola  279 

John  Pelham Jas.  R.  Randall  282 

A  Pledge  to  Lee Mrs.  C.  .4.  Warfield  284 

Charade 286 

Stonewall  Jackson's  Way- 287 

Stonewall's  Sable  Seers Mrs.  C.  A.  War  field  289 

Riding  a  Raid 292 

The  Lone  Sentry Jas.  11.  Randall  293 

On  the  Death  of  Lieut,  Gen.  Jackson Mrs.  C.  A.  Warfidd  295 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Stonewall  Jackson : 29S 

The  Funeral  Dirge  of  Stonewall  Jackson ^....Rosa  Vertner  Jeffrey  301 

Stonewall  Jackson    II.  L.  Flash  304 

Stonewall 305 

Stonewall  Jackson's  Grave Mrs.  M.  J.  Preston  307 

"Over  the  River" J.  Dafforc  311 

"Let  us  cross  over  the  River  and  rest  under  the  shade  of  the 

Trees" James  313 

The  "Stonewall"  Cemetery Mrs.  M.  B.  Clark  314 

A  Voice  from  the  South Rosa  Vertner  Jeffrey  310 

The  Autumn  Rain Susan  Archer  Talley  ::1S 

Nil  Desperandum— To  the  Southern  Soldier Ikey  Ingle  319 

Despondency  Tenella  320 

Lilies  of  the  Valley Rosa  Vertner  Jeffrey  322 

The  Boy  Picket;  or,  Charley's  Guard Lady  of  Kentucky  324 

"True  to  the  Last  !" Col.  W.S.Hawkins  325 

A  Prison  Scene Ibid.  327 

Lines  on  Captain  Beall Ibid.  329 


CONTENTS.  \\ 

PAGE 

The  Hero  without  a  Name Ibid.  331 

The  Chimes  of  St.  Pauls Tenella  335 

Lines  to  Lee Mrs.  C.  A.  Warfield  337 

Lee  to  the  Rear John  R.  Thompson  339 

General  Lee  at  the  Battle  of  the  Wilderness Tenella  342 

"The  Cavalier's  Glee" Copt.  Blackford  344 

Stuart W.  Winston  Fontai-ne  345 

Gen.  J.  E.  B.  Stuart Jno.  It.  Thompson  347 

Semmes'  Sword 350 

Oil !  no,  he'll  not  need  them  again J.  D.  Sullivan  352 

Sumter  in  Ruins W.  Gilmore  Simms  354 

Polk H.  L.  Flash  355 

John  Pegram W.  Gordon  Me Cabe  356 

A  Prayer  for  Peace ....S.  T.  Wallis  358 

"  Shermanized  " L.  Virginia  French  360 

The  Surrender  of  the  Army  of   Northern   Virginia  —  April  10, 

1865 Florence  Anderson  363 

The  Sword  of  Robert  Lee Moina  365 

General  Robert  E.  Lee Tenella  367 

April  Twenty-sixth Annie  Ketchum  Chambers  368 

Dixie Rosa  Ver in er  Jeffrey  369 

Weep!     Weep! .......  371 

Peace L.  Burroughs  373 

The  Price  of  Peace Luola  375 

Acceptation Mrs.  M.  J.  Preston  379 

Virginia  Capta Ibid.  380 

The  Conquered  Banner Moina  381 

"Fold  it  up  Carefully" Sir  Henry  Houghton,  Bart.  383 

Cruci  Dum  Spiro,  Fido J.  C.  M.  I584 

Lines  written  July  15,  1865 A.  L.  D.  385 

Off  with  your  Grey  Suits,  Boys! 387 

Wearing  of  the  Grey A  Mississippian  388 

Our  Failure Author  of  (l  Southrons"  389 

Here  and  There Sunny  South  392 

In  the  Land  where  we  wrere  Dreaming Dan.  Lucas  397 

The  Broken  Mug * A  Soldier  400 

Last  Request  of  Henry  C.  Magruder 405 

Forget?     Never! Mrs.  C.  A.  Ball  406 

Arlington Mrs.  M.  J.  Preston  408 

Our  Chief Author  of  "Southrons"  411 

Jefferson  Davis Wm.  Munford  412 


12  CONTEXTS. 

FAQI 

Jefferson  Davis A  Southern  Woman    ill 

An  Appeal  for  Jcfl'erson  Davis A  Lady  of  Virginia  -11(5 

Jefferson  Davis Molllc  E.  Moore  -US 

Regulus Mrs.  M.  J.  Preston  -121 

The  Battle  of  Buena  Vista A  Mississippian  -122 

The  Confederate  Note 3/rrj.  S.  A.  Jonas  425 

Give  them  Bread! G.  L.  R.  426 

A  Wind  from  the  South ;....  c.  C.  423 

To  tiie  Ladies  of  Baltimore Mrs.  Lcttie  C.  Locke  430 

The  Blessed  Hand   s.  T.  Waltis  433 

The  Blessed  Heart Mrs.  M.  M.  435 

To  Miss  ,  of  Va Stella  437 

The  Waste  of  War 439 

Olir  D^ad ; Cot.  A.  M.  Hobby  440 

The  Confederate  Dead Latiennc  44." 

SonS  445 

Lines  read  at  Hollywood  Cemetery,  May  10,  1866 456 

Lines Florence  Anderson   147 

Our  Cherished  Dead 45,3 

APril  26lh Drm  Ford  451 

Home  — after  the  War M.  E.  H.  451 

The  Vanquished  Patriot's  Prayer ..  453 


SOUTHERN  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR. 


"THE  SOUTHERN  CROSS." 

BY    ST.    GEORGE    TUCKER,    VA. 

Oh !  say  can  you  see,  through  the  gjoom  and  the  storm, 
More  bright  for  the  darkness,  that  pure  constellation  ? 
Like  the  symbol  of  love  and  redemption  its  form, 
As  it  points  to  the  haven  of  hope  for  the  nation. 
How  radiant  each  star,  as  the  beacon  afar, 
Giving  promise  of  peace,  or  assurance  in  war ! 
'Tis  the  Cross  of  the  South,  which  shall  ever  remain 
To  light  us  to  freedom  and  glory  again  ! 

How  peaceful  and  blest  was  America's  soil 
'Till  betrayed  by  the  guile  of  the  Puritan  demon, 
Which  lurks  under  Virtue  and  springs  from  its  coil 
To  fasten  its  fangs  in  the  life-blood  of  freemen. 
Then  boldly  appeal  to  each  heart  that  can  feel, 
And  crush  the  foul  viper  'neath  Liberty's  heel ! 
And  the  Cross  of  the  South  shall  in  triumph  remain 
To  light  us  to  freedom  and  glory  again  ! 

'Tis  the  emblem  of  peace,  'tis  the  day-star  of  hope, 
Like  the  sacred  Labarum  that  guided  the  Roman  ; 
From  the  shore  of  the  Gulf  to  the  Delaware's  slope, 
'Tis  the  trust  of  the  free  and  the  terror  of  foemen. 
2 


14  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Fling'its  folds  to  the  air,  .while  we  boldly  declare 
r^Tfif!/fiC$its  ^ye•  dementi1,  or  1>he  deeds  that  we  dare  ! 
While  the  Cross  of  the  South  shall  in  triumph  remain 
To  light  us  to  freedom  and  glory  again  ! 

And  if  peace  should  be  hopeless  and  justice  denied, 
And  war's  bloody  vulture  should  flap  its  black  pinions, 
Then  gladly  to  arms !  while  we  hurl  in  our  pride, 
Defiance  to  tyrants  and  death  to  their  minions ! 
With  our  front  in  the  field,  swearing  never  \o  yield, 
Or  return  like  the  Spartan  in  death  on  our  shield ! 
And  the  Cross  of  the  South  shall  triumphantly  wave 
As  the  Flag  of  the  free  or  the  pall  of  the  brave ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  15 

ADDRESS  TO   PRESIDENT   DAVIS. 

BY    MRS.    E.    K.    BLUNT. 

In  the  name  of  God  ! — Amen  ! 

Stand  for  the  Southern  rights ! 
Over  ye,  Southern  men, 

The  God  of  Battles  fights  ! 
Fling  the  invaders  far, 

Hurl  back  their  work  of  woe, 
The  voice  is  the  voice  of  a  brother, 

But  the  hand  is  the  hand  of  the  foe. 
They  come  with  a  trampling  army, 

Invading  our  native  sod  ; 
Stand,  Southrons  !  fight  and  conquer, 

In  the  name  of  the  mighty  God. 

They  are  singing  our  song  of  triumph 

Which  was  made  to  set  us  free, 
While  they  are  breaking  away  the  heart-strings 

Of  our  Nation's  harmony. 
Sadly  it  floated  from  us, 

Sighing  o'er  land  and  wave, 
Till  mute  in  the  lips  of  the  poet, 

It  sleeps  in  his  silent  grave. 
Spirit  and  song  departed, 

Minstrel  and  minstrelsy, 
We  mourn  thee,  heavy  hearted, 

But  we  will,  we  shall  be  free  ! 


16  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

They  are  waving  our  flag  above  us, 

With  a  despot's  tyrant  will, 
"With  our  blood  have  they  stained  our  colors, 

And  call  them  holy  still. 
With  tearful  eyes,  but  steady  hands, 

We'll  tear  its  stripes  apart, 
And  fling  them,  like  broken  fetters, 

That  may  not  bind  the  heart. 
But  we'll  save  our  stars  of  glory 

In  the  might  of  the  sacred  sign, 
Of  Him  who  hath  freed  forever 

Our  Southern  Cross  to  shine. 

Stand,  Southrons  !     Stand  and  conquer  ! 

Solemn,  and  strong,  and  sure, 
The  strife  shall  not  be  longer 

Than  God  shall  bid  endure. 
By  the  life  that  only  yesterday 

Came  with  the  infant's  breath, 
By  the  feet  which  ere  the  morn 

May  tread  the  soldier's  death, 
By  the  blood  which  cries  to  heaven 

Crimson  on  our  sod, 
Stand,  Southrons  !.    Stand  and  conquer  ! 

In  the  name  of  the  mighty  God  ! 


OF  THE  WAR.  17 

SOUTHERN  CHANT  OF  DEFIANCE. 

BY    MRS.     C.    A.    WARFIELD,    KY. 

You  can  never  win  them  back ; 

Never,  never ; 
Tho'  they  perish  on  the  track 

Of  your  endeavor : 
Tho'  their  corses  strew  the  earth 
That  smiled  upon  their  birth, 
And  tho'  blood  pollute  each  hearth 

Stone  forever ! 

They  have  risen  to  a  man — 

Stern  and  fearless. 
Of  your  curses  and  your  ban 

They  are  careless. 
Every  hand  is  on  its  knife ; 
Every  gun  is  primed  for  strife ; 
Every  palm  contains  a  life — 

High  and  peerless ! 

You  have  no  such  blood  as  theirs, 

For  the  shedding : 
In  the  veins  of  cavaliers 

Was  its  heading. 
You  have  no  such  stately  men 
In  your  abolition  den, 
Marching  on  through  foe  and  fen, 

Nothing  dreading ! 


18  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

They  may  fall  beneath  the  fire 

Of  your  legions, 
Paid  with  gold  for  murderous  hire — 

Bought  allegiance ; 
But  for  every  drop  you  shed, 
You  shall  have  a  mound  of  dead, 
So  that  vultures  may  be  fed 

In  all  your  regions. 

But  the  battle  to  the  strong 

Is  not  given, 
While  the  Judge  of  right  and  wrong 

Sits  in  Heaven ! 
And  the  God  of  David  still 
Guides  the  pebble  with  his  will. 
There  are  giants  yet  to  kill — 

Wrongs  unshriven ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  19 


WRITTEN  BEFORE  THE  SECESSION  OF  VA. 

BY  MBS.  KEBECCA  TABB,  OF  GLOUCESTER,  VA. 


"It  is  given  unto  women   to  weep;    to  men   to  remember." 

[Motley's  Dutch  Republic. 


Weep  !  yes,  we  will  weep  ;  but  not  from  coward  fears, 
Poor  woman  !  what  has  she  to  give  her  country  save  her 

tears  ? 
Were  we  men  we  would  remember  the  lessons  we  were 

taught 
How  our  fathers  fought  for  freedom.     Was  the  boon  too 

dearly  bought  ? 

We'd  remember  how  the  glory  is  passing  from  our  State, 
Nor  blind  our  eyes  with  weeping  and  wildly  mourn  her 

fate ; 

We'd  remember  how  our  fathers  had  won  immortal  fame, 
And  prove  that  we  were  worthy  to  bear  a  patriot's 

name. 

We'd  remember  how  to  battle  for  our  country  and  her 

right, 
Nor  veil  our  heads   in  darkness,  and   wail  Virginia's 

night ; 


20  SOUTHERN   POEMS 

We'd  remember  we  have  children — how  can  they  dare 

forget  ? 
Is  it  ease  that  thus  beguiles  you?     You  cannot  fear  their 

threat  ? 

Weep,  daughters  of  Virginia !  Weep  for  her  old  renown, 
Weep,  that  our   glorious  mother  has  lost  her  ancient 

crown ; 

But  e'en  amid  our  tears,  this  we'll  remember  well, 
'Twas  the  treason  of  her  children  by  which  Virginia  fell! 

Your  mothers  and  your  sisters,  your  wives  and  daughters 

weep, 
Can  you  remember,  men,  how  swords  from  scabbards 

leap  ? 
Have  you  forgot  your  honor  that  you  meekly  bear  their 

sneers  ? 
But  surely  you'll  remember  now,  when  you  see  our  bitter 

tears. 

Alas  !  that  we  should  weep,  save  with  a  woman's  pride, 

That  those  we  loved  had  battled  for  their  country  ere 
they  died: 

Wed  not  forget  them  in  their  graves,  but  tell  with  swell 
ing  heart, 

How  Virginia's  sons  could  bleed  and  die,  but  not  with 
honor  part. 


OF    THE     WAR.  21 

THE  FALL  OF   FORT   SUMTER,  AFRIL,   1861. 

BY    A.    L.    D.,    RALEIGH,    N.    C. 

'Twas  in  the  early  morning,  all  Charleston  lay  asleep, 

While  yet  the  purple  darkness  was  resting  on  the  deep. 

In  the  middle  of  the  channel  Fort  Sumter  stood  afar, 

Above  it  waved  the  banner  which  yet  bore  every  star. 

Outside  the  bar,  at  sunset,  seven  steamers  we  could  see, 

We  knew  they  brought  the  slaves  of  slaves  who  would 
coerce  the  free. 

At  midnight  came  the  order,  that  when  the  day  should 
break, 

The  guns  from  out  our  batteries  must  then  their  chal 
lenge  speak. 

0,  how  anxiously  we  waited  for  the  dawning  of  the  day  ! 

There  was  little  sleeping  all  that  night  in  the  forts  of 
Charleston  Bay. 

All  night  along  the  sea-shore,  and  up  the  shelving 
strand, 

Like  the  ghosts  of  our  old  heroes,  did  the  curling  sea- 
mist  stand. 

They  saw  their  children  watching  there,  as  they  had 
watched  before, 

When  a  British  fleet  had  crossed  the  bar  and  threatened 
Charleston  shore. 

But  when  the  first  loud  gun  announced  the  dawning  of 
the  day, 

The  mists  they  broke,  and  lingering,  slowly  rolled  away. 

When  the  first  red  streak  upon  the  East,  told  of  the 
rising  sun, 


22  SOUTHERN   POEMS 

'Twas  then  the  cannonading  from  the  batteries  begun. 

All  day  the  cannon  thundered  along  the  curving  shore, 

All  day  the  sea  resounded  with  Sumter's  steady  roar. 

When  the  land-breeze  from  the  city  brought  the  noon- 
chimes  clear  and  strong, 

We  saw  the  starry  flag  no  more,  which  had  floated  there 
so  long ; 

For  while  the  fight  was  raging,  we'd  seen  that  banner 
fall, 

A  round  shot  cut  the  staff  in  twain,  and  tore  it  from 
the  Avail. 

But  when  they  raised  no  other,  our  General  sent  them 
one, 

For  they'd  kept  the  lost  one  bravely,  as  true  men  should 
have  done. 

The  fleet  turned  slowly  southward,  we  saw  the  last  ship 

g°» 

We  had  saved  old  Carolina  from  the  insults  of  the  foe ; 
0,  we  were  very  thankful  when  we  lay  down  to  rest, 
And  saw  the  darkness  fall  again  upon  the  harbour's 

breast. 

For  now  above  Fort  Sumter  floats  a  banner  yet  unknown, 
Upon  it  are  but  seven  stars,  where  thirty-two  had  shone. 


OF    THE     WAR.  23 


A   CRY  TO   ARMS. 

Ho  !  woodsmen  of  the  mountain  side  ! 

Ho  !  dwellers  in  the  vales ! 
Ho  !  ye,  that  by  the  chafing  tide 

Have  roughened  in  the  gales ! 
Leave  barn  and  byre,  leave  kin  and  cot, 

Lay  by  the  bloodless  spade ; 
Let  desk,  and  case,  and  counters  rot, 

And  burn  your  books  of  trade  ! 

The  despot  roves  your  fairest  lands 

And  till  he  flies,  or  fears, 
Your  fields  must  grow  but  armed  bands — 

Your  sheaves  be  sheaves  of  spears  ! 
Give  up  to  mildew  and  to  rust 

The  useless  tools  of  gain, — 
And  feed  your  country's  sacred  dust 

With  floods  of  crimson  rain  ! 

Come  with  the  weapons  at  your  call — 

With  musket,  pike,  or  knife, — 
He  wields  the  deadliest  blade  of  all 

Who  lightest  holds  his  life. 
The  arm  that  drives  its  unbought  blows, 

With  all  a  patriot's  scorn, 
Might  brain  a  tyrant  with  a  rose, 

Or  stab  him  with  a  thorn ! 


24  SOUTHERN   POEMS 

Does  any  falter  ?     Let  him  turn 

To  some  brave  maiden's  eyes, 
'And  catch  the  holy  fires  that  burn 

In  those  sublunar  skies, 
Oh  !  could  you  like  your  women  feel, 

And  in  their  spirit  march, 
A  day  might  see  your  lines  of  steel 

Beneath  the  victor's  arch ! 

What  hope,  0  God  !  would  not  grow  warm 

When  thoughts  like  these  give  cheer  ? 
The  lily  calmly  braves  the  storm — 

And  shall  the  palm-tree  fear  ? 
No  !  rather  let  its  branches  court 

The  blast  that  sweeps  the  plain ; 
And  from  the  lily's  regal  port 

Learn  how  to  breast  the  rain. 

Ho  !  woodsmen  of  the  mountain  side  ! 

Ho  !  dwellers  in  the  vales  ! 
Ho  !  ye  that  by  the  roaring  tide, 

Have  roughened  in  the  gales ! 
Come  !  flocking  gayly  to  the  fight, 

From  forest,  hill,  and  lake, — 
We  battle  for  our  country's  right, 

And  for  the  lily's  sake  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  25 

POEM  ON  THE  DEATH  OF   "JACKSON." 

Killed  by  a  New   York  Zouave  in  Alexandria,    Va.,  May  24,   18G1. 

Not  where  the  battle  red 
Covers  with  fame  the  dead, — 
Not  where  the  trumpet  calls 
Vengeance  for  each  that  falls, — 
Not  with  his  comrades  dear, 
Not  there — he  fell  not  there. 

He  grasps  no  brother's  hand, 
He  sees  no  patriot  band  ; 
Daring  alone  the  foe 
He  strikes — then  waits  the  blow, 
Counting  his  life  not  dear, 
His  was  no  heart  to  fear ! 

Shout !  Shout,  his  deed  of  glory  ! 
Tell  it  in  song  and  story  ; 
Tell  it  where  soldiers  brave 
Eush  fearless  to  their  grave ; 
Tell  it — a  magic  spell — 
In  that  great  deed  shall  dwell. 

Yes  !  he  hath  won  a  name 
Deathless  for  aye  to  fame  ; 
Our  flag  baptized  in  blood, 
Always,  as  with  a  flood, 
Shall  sweep  the  tyrant  band 
Whose  feet  pollute  our  land. 


26  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Then,  freemen,  raise  the  cry, 
As  freemen  live  or  die  ! 
Arm  !  arm  you  for  the  fight ! 
His  banner  in  your  sight ; 
And  this  your  battle-cry, 
"  Jackson  and  victory  !" 


DEAD   JACKSON. 

A  chaplet !  as  ye  pause  ye  brave 

Beside  the  broad  Potomac's  wave ; 

A  wreath  !  above  dead  Jackson's  grave  ! 

Against  a  hundred  thousand — ONE 
Whose  dauntless  manhood  held  alone 
Virginia's  threshold,  and  his  own ! 

Hath  vengeance  tarried  ?     Swifter,  none 
Since  midnight  lightning  flashed  upon 
The  sword  of  God  and  Gideon. 

"Hath  God  forgotten  ?      Who  hath  led 
Your  legions  to  this  narrow  bed  ? 
Whose  very  name  recalls  the  dead? 

A  Jackson  !     Let  your  banners  fly 
And  forward  with  the  battle  cry 
Of  Jackson,  and  of  liberty  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  27 

RALLYING  SONG  OF  THE  VIRGINIANS. 

BY    SUSAN    ARCHER    TALLY. 
"  Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled." 


Now  rouse  ye,  gallant  comrades  all, 

And  ready  stand,  in  war's  array, — 
Virginia  sounds  her  battle  call, 

And  gladly  we  obey. 
Our  hands  upon  our  trusty  swords, 

Our  hearts  with  courage  beating  high, — 
We'll  fight  as  once  our  father's  fought, 

To  conquer  or  to  die ! 

Adieu,  awhile  to  loving  eyes, 

And  lips  that  breathe  our  names  in  prayer ; 
To  them  our  holiest  thoughts  be  given, 

For  them  our  swords  we  bare  ! 
Yet  linger  not  when  honor  calls, 

Nor  breathe  one  sad,  regretful  sigh, — 
Defying  fate,  for  love  we'll  live, 

Or  for  our  country  die ! 

No  tyrant  hand  shall  ever  dare 

Our  sacred  Southern  homes  despoil, 

No  tyrant  foot  shall  e'er  invade 
Our  free  Virginia  soil. 

Lo  !  from  her  lofty  mountain  peaks, 
To  plains  that  skirt  the  Southern  seas, 


28  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

We  fling  her  banner  to  the  winds, 
Her  motto  on  the  breeze  ! 

We  hear  the  roll  of  stormy  drums, 

We  hear  the  trumpet's  call  afar  ! 
Isow  forward,  gallant  comrades  all, 

To  swell  the  ranks  of  war ; 
Uplift  on  high  our  battle  cry, 

Where  fiercest  rolls  the  bloody  fight ; 
"  Virginia!  for  the  Southern  cause, 

And  God  defend  the  right!" 


1861. 

Virginia's  sons  are  mustering,  from  every  hill  and  dale, 
The  sound  of  fife  and  drum  is  borne  upon  the  rising  gale, 
Virginia's  voice  is  ringing  out,  in  accents  loud  and  clear, 
"  Come  home,  my  wand'ring  children,  thy  mother  needs 
ye  here !" 

She  is  watching  still  and  waiting  for  a  lost  but  loved 

one,  * 
So  long  the  heir  of  glory  bright,  her  brave  and  valiant 

son ; 
0,  how  his  mother's  heart  doth  yearn  to  welcome  him 

once  more, 
With  open  arms  and  loud  huzzas  to  her  sweet  Southern 

shore. 


OF    THE     WAR.  29 

Come,  come  from  every  valley,  from  mountain  and  from 

plain, 
From  every   far-off  country,  to   your   boyhood's   home 

again. 
With  hearts  so  firm  and  fearless,  we'll  strike  hard  for 

the  right, 
For  no  one  but  a  dastard  slave  would  shrink  from  such 

a  fight. 

Unfurl  her  banner,  let  it  float  far  out  upon  the  air, 
Shout  forth  your  triumph,  far  and  wide,  and   let   the 

tyrants  hear. 
Still  let  your  motto  be,  my  boys,  with  neither  fear  nor 

hate, 
"Sic  semper  tyrannis"  "  God  and  our  native  State." 


1776—18.61. 

AIR— Bruce's  Address. 

Sons  of  the  South !  from  hill  and  dale, 
From  mountain  top,  and  lowly  vale, 
Arouse  ye  now  !  'tis  Freedom's  wail — • 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  she  cries. 

Strike  !  for  freedom  in  the  dust ; 
Strike  !  to  crush  proud  mammon's  lust, 
Strike  !  remembering  God  is  just ! 

Thus  a  freeman  dies. 
3* 


30  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Southrons  !  who  with  Beauregard, 
Day  and  night,  keep  watch  and  ward, 
Southrons !  whom  the  angels  guard, 
Strike  for  Liberty ! 

Smite  the  motley  hireling  throng, 
Smite  !  as  Heaven  smites  the  wrong, 
Smite  ! — they  fly  before  the  strong 
In  God  and  Liberty  ! 

By  your  hearth-stones,  by  your  dead, 
By  all  the  fields  where  patriots  bled, 
A  freeman's  home  or  gory  bed 
Let  the  alternate  be. 

Weeping  wives  and  mothers  here, 
Sisters,  daughters,  dear  ones  near — 
Seas  of  blood  for  every  tear, 
God  and  Liberty ! 

Louder  swells  the  battle-cry, 
Flaming  sword  and  flashing  eye 
Light  the  field  where  freemen  die  ! 
Death  or  Liberty ! 

Backward  roll  your  poisonous  waves, 
Infidel  and  ruffian  slaves ! 
'Tis  Heaven's  own  wrath  your  blindness  braves, 
God  and  Liberty ! 


OF    TIIE     WAR.  31 


II— SEVENTY-SIX  AND  SIXTY-ONE. 

Ye  spirits  of  the  glorious  dead ! 

Ye  watchers  in  the  sky  ! 
Who  sought  the  patriot's  crimson  bed 

With  holy  trust  and  high — 
Come  lend  your  inspiration  now, 

Come  fire  each  Southern  son, 
Who  nobly  fights  for  freemen's  rights, 

And  shouts  for  sixty-one. 

Come  teach  them  how  on  hill,  in  glade, 

Quick  leaping  from  your  side, 
The  lightning  flash  of  sabres  made 

A  red  and  flowing  tide  ; 
How  well  ye  fought,  how  bravely  fell, 

Beneath  our  burning  sun, 
And  let  the  lyre,  in  strains  of  fire, 

So  speak  of  sixty-one. 

There's  many  a  grave  in*  all  the  land, 

And  many  a  crucifix, 
Which  tells  how  that  heroic  band 

Stood  firm  in  seventy-six. 
Ye  heroes  of  the  deathless  past, 

Your  glorious  race  is  run, 
But  from  your  dust  springs  freemen's  trust, 

And  blows  for  sixty-one. 


32  SOUTHERN   POEMS 

We  build  our  altars  where  you  lie, 

On  many  a  verdant  sod, 
With  sabres  pointing  to  the  sky 

And  sanctified  of  God — 
The  smoke  shall  rise  from  every  pile, 

Till  freedom's  fight  is  done, 
And  every  voice  throughout  the  South, 

Shall  shout  for  sixty-one. 


BY   ALBERT   PIKE,   OF   ARKANSAS. 

Yes,  call  us  rebels  !  'tis  the  name 

Our  patriot  fathers  bore, 
And  by  such  deeds  we'll  hallow  it, 

As  they  have  done  before. 
At  Lexington  and  Baltimore, 

Was  poured  the  holy  chrism, 
For  freedom  marks  her  sons  with  blood, 

In  sign  of  their  baptism. 

Rebels,  in  proud  and  bold  protest, 

Against  a  power  unreal ; 
A  unity  which  every  quest 

Proves  false  as  'tis  ideal. 
A  brotherhood,  whose  ties  are  chains, 

Which  crushes  what  it  holds, 
Like  fabled  Laocoon  of  old, 

Within  the  serpent's  folds. 


OF    THE     WAR.  33 

Rebels,  against  the  malice  vast, 

Malice  that  nought  disarms, 
Which  fills  the  quiet  of  our  homes 

With  vague  and  dread  alarms, 
Against  th'  invaders'  daring  feet, 

Against  the  tide  of  wrong, 
Which  has  been  borne,  in  silence  borne, 

But  borne  perchance  too  long. 

We  would  be  cowards,  did  we  crouch 

Beneath  the  lifted  hand, 
Whose  very  wave,  ye  seem  to  think, 

Will  chill  us  where  we  stand. 
Yes,  call  us  rebels  !  'tis  a  name 

Which  speaks  of  other  days, 
Of  gallant  deeds,  and  gallant  men, 

And  wins  them  to  their  ways. 

Fair  was  the  edifice  they  raised, 

Uplifting  to  the  skies ; 
A  mighty  Samson  'neath  its  dome 

In  grand  quiescence  lies. 
Dare  not  to  touch  his  noble  limb, 

With  thong  or  chain  to  bind, 
Lest  ruin  crush  both  you  and  him, 

This  Samson  is  not  blind  ! 

N.  0.  Picayune,  May,  1861. 


34  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


BY    REV.   MR.   GARESCHE,   OF    ST.    LOUIS. 

Rebels  !     "Tis  a  holy  name, 

The  name  our  fathers  bore, 
When  battling  in  the  cause  of  right 
Against  the  tyrant  in  his  might, 

In  the  dark  days  of  yore. 

Rebels  !     'Tis  our  family  name, 

Our  father — Washington — 
Was  the  arch-rebel  in  the  fight, 
And  gave  the  name  to  us — a  right 

Of  father  unto  son. 

Rebels  !     'Tis  our  given  name, 

Our  mother,  Liberty, 
Received  the  title  with  her  fame, 
In  days  of  grief,  of  fear  and  shame 

When  at  her  breast  were  we. 

Rebels  !     'Tis  our  sealed  name  ! 

A  baptism  of  blood ! 
The  war — aye,  the  din  of  strife — 
The  fearful  contest,  life  for  life, 

The  mingled  crimson  flood. 

Rebels  !     'Tis  a  patriot  name  ! 

In  struggles  it  was  given, 
We  bore  it  then  when  tyrants  raved, 
And  through  their  curses  'twas  engraved 

On  the  Doomsday  book  of  Heaven  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  35 

Rebels  !     Tis  our  fighting  name, 

For  peace  rules  o'er  the  land, 
Until  they  speak  of  craven  woe, 
Until  our  rights  receive  a  blow, 

From, foe's  or  brother's  hand  ! 

Rebels  !     'Tis  our  dying  name, 

For  although  life  is  dear, 
Yet  freemen  born  and  freemen  bred, 
We'd  rather  sleep  as  freemen  dead 

Than  live  in  slavish  fear. 

Then,  call  us  Rebels  if  you  will, 

We  glory  in  the  name ; 
For  bending  under  unjust  laws, 
And  swearing  faith  to  unjust  cause, 

We  count  a  greater  shame. 


36  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

HYMN.— GOD  SAVE  THE   SOUTH. 

BY    GEORGE   H.    MILES,    OF   FREDERICK   COUNTY,    MD. 

God  save  the  South  ! 
God  save  the  South  ! 
Her  altars  and  firesides, 

God  save  the  South ! 
Now  that  the  war  is  nigh, 
Now  that  we  arm  to  die, 
Chaunting  our  battle-cry, 

"  Freedom  or  death ! " 

God  be  our  shield, 
At  home  or  afield, 
Stretch  thine  arm  over  us, 

Strengthen  and  save ! 
What  though  they're  three  to  one, 
Forward,  each  sire  and  son, 
Strike,  till  the  war  is  won, 

Strike  to  the  grave  ! 

God  make  the  right 
Stronger  than  might ! 
Millions  would  trample  us 

Down  in  their  pride. 
Lay  Thou  their  legions  low, 
Eoll  back  the  ruthless  foe, 
Let  the  proud  spoiler  know 

God's  on  our  side. 


OF    THE     WAR.  37 

Hear  Honor's  call, 
Summoning  all, 
Summoning  all  of  us 

Unto  the  strife. 
Sons  of  the  South,  awake  ! 
Strike  till  the  brand  shall  break, 
Strike  for  clear  honor's  sake, 

Freedom  and  life. 

Eebels  before 

Our  fathers  of  yore  ! 

Rebels  !  the  righteous  name 

Washington  bore. 
Why,  then,  be  ours  the  same, 
The  name  that  he  snatched  from  shame, 
Making  it  first  in  fame, 
Foremost  in  war ! 

War  to  the  hilt ! 
Theirs  be  the  guilt 
Who  fetter  the  freeman 

To  ransom  the  slave. 
Up,  then,  and  undismayed 
Sheathe  not  the  battle  blade, 
Till  the  last  foe  is  laid 

Low  in  the  grave. 

God  save  the  South  ! 
God  save  the  South  ! 
Dry  the  dim  eyes  that  now 
Follow  our  path. 


38  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Still  let  the  light  feet  rove 
Safe  through  the  orange  grove, 
Still  keep  the  land  we  love 
Safe  from  thy  wrath. 

God  save  the  South  ! 
God  save  the  South  ! 
Her  altars  and  firesides, 

God  save  the  South  ! 
For  the  great  war  is  nigh, 
And  we  will  win  or  die, 
Chaunting  our  battle-cry, 

"  Freedom  or  death  ! ' 


ANTHEM  OF  THE  CONFEDERATE   STATES. 

0  God  !  our  only  King, 
To  Thee  our  hearts  we  bring, 
Now  hear  us  while  we  sing, 
God  bless  our  land. 

With  all  Thy  bounty  yields, 
Crown  Thou  her  harvest  fields, 
And  when  the  sword  she  wields, 
Strengthen  her  hand. 

O'er  every  enemy 
Give  her  the  victory, 
Thou  mad'st  her — keep  her  free, 
God  bless  our  land. 


OF    THE     WAR.  39 

May  Justice,  Truth  and  Love, 
In  all  her  councils  move, 
That  in  all  good  she  prove 
First  of  all  lands. 

Pattern  of  Excellence, 
Bulwark  of  Innocence, 
Freedom's  secure  defence, 
God  bless  our  land. 

Thou,  in  the  days  of  old, 
Our  fathers  did'st  uphold 
When  they  for  right  made  bold, 
Unsheathed  the  sword. 

We  for  the  Liberty, 

Which  we  received  from  Thee, 

Now  meet  the  enemy, 

Help  us,  0  Lord. 

Thou  art  the  God  of  might, 
God  of  the  Truth  and  Light, 
"Tis  in  their  cause  we  fight, 
Be  Thou  our  aid. 

Strike  with  us  'gainst  the  foe ; 
Cause  his  swift  overthrow, 
That  all  the  earth  may  know 
Thou  art  our  aid. 


40  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


GOD   SAVE   THE   SOUTH. 

BY    R.    AGNEW,   OF    NEWBERN. 

Wake  every  minstrel's  strain, 
Eing  o'er  each  Southern  plain, 

"  God  save  the  South  !" 
Still  let  this  noble  band, 
Joined  now  in  heart  and  hand, 
Fight  for  our  sunny  land — 

Land  of  the  South  ! 

Armed  in  such  sacred  cause, 
We  court  no  vain  .applause, 

Our  swords  are  free. 
No  spot  of  wrong  or  shame 
Rests  on  our  banner's  name, 
Flung  forth  in  Freedom's  name, 

O'er  land  and  sea. 

Then  let  the  invader  come  ; 
Soon  shall  the  beat  of  drum 

Rally  us  all. 

Forth  from  our  homes  we  go, 
Death  !  death  !  to  every  foe  ! 
Lay  each  invader  low — 

God  save  us  all ! 

Sound,  then,  with  loud  acclaim, 
Davis  !  our  Chief's  great  name, 
God  save  him  long  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  41 

May  the  Almighty  power, 
Blessings  upon  him.  shower, 
And  still  from  hour  to  hour, 
Shield  him  from  wrong  ! 

Then,  'mid  the  cannon's  roar, 
Let 'us  sing  evermore, — 

God  save  the  South  ! 
Ours  is  the  soul  to  dare, 
See  !  our  good  swords  are  bare  ! 
We  will  be  free,  we  swear  ! 

God  save  the  South  ! 


December,  1861. 


HURRAH ! 

BY   A    MISSISSIPPIAN. 

Hurrah !  for  the  Southern  Confederate  States, 
With  her  banner  of  white,  red  and  blue ; 

Hurrah !  for  her  daughters,  the  fairest  on  earth, 
And  her  sons,  ever  loyal  and  true. 

Hurrah  !  and  hurrah  !  for  her  brave  volunteers, 

Enlisted  for  freedom  or  death ; 
Hurrah  !  for  Jeff.  Davis,  Commander-in-Chief, 

And  three  cheers  for  the  Palmetto  wreath  I 


42  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Hurrah. !  for  each  heart  that  is  right  in  the  cause, 
That  cause  we'll  protect  with  our  lives ; 

Hurrah !  for  the  first  one  that  dies  on  the  field, 
And  hurrah  !  for  each  one  who  survives  ! 

Hurrah  !  for  the  South,  shout  hurrah  and  hurrah  ! 

O'er  her  soil  shall  no  tyrants  have  sway, — 
In  peace  and  in  war,  we  will  ever  be  found 

"  Invincible,"  now  and  for  aye. 

Mobile  Register,  1861. 


THE   SHIP  OF  STATE. 

BY   MRS.    C.    A.    WARFIELD. 

A  good  ship  o'er  a  stormy  sea, 

Before  the  gale  is  driving, — 
The  billows  leap  against  her  prow, 

With  more  than  demon  striving. 
The  lurid  lightning  half  illumes 

The  sun-deserted  heavens, 
And  shines  upon  her  pennon  proud, 

Her  sails  and  cordage  riven. 

Her  decks  are  thronged  with  storm-beat  men, 

A  crowd  of  eager  faces, 
Where  desperate  hope  and  suffering  stern, 

Have  left  their  iron  traces. 


OF    THE     WAR.  "43 

But  not  a  sign  of  craven  fear 

Proclaims  one  base  emotion, 
In  souls  that  grapple  with  their  doom, 

And  dread  not  wind  nor  ocean. 

Clear  rings  a  voice  above  the  throng, 

So  sweet  that  all  may  hear  it, 
"Tis  from  the  helmsman,  slight  and  pale, 

With  the  look  of  a  ruling  spirit. 
He  hath  dropped  his  mantle  on  the  deck, 

His  brow  is  bare  and  gleaming, 
And  he  stands  before  them  like  those  shapes 

That  Jacob  saw  in  dreaming. 

"  Come  weal,  come  woe,  I  share  your  fate, 

"  No  human  power  can  part  us, 
"  And  while  we  bend  to  his  behest, 

"  Our  God  can  ne'er  desert  us. 
"  Why  heed  the  rest?  let  tempest  rage, 

"  And  sun  refuse  its  shining, 
"  We  know  one  hand  is  over  all, 

"  And  clouds  have  their  silver  lining. 

"  Then  cast  away  to  the  foaming  deep 

"  Our  treasures  prized  and  golden, 
"  Lighten  the  good  ship  on  her  way, 

"  And  her  course  will  yet  be  holden. 
"  And  see  afar  the  Southern  star 

"  Gleams  through  the  rifted  heaven, 
"  Till  seas  o'erwhelm  I'll  hold  this  helm 

"  While  by  the  gale  we  are  driven." 


44  SOUTHERN   POEMS 

And  still  across  that  stormy  sea, 

The  noble  ship  is  driving, 
But  the  frantic  waves  shall  drop  to  rest, 

Vain  is  their  demon  striving. 
And  far  above  her  shattered  sails, 

The  Cross  and  Star  are  flying, 
'Tis  a  crew  that  looks  to  God  alone, 

The  elements  defying.          .. 


OF    THE     WAR.  45 

THE   SOUTHRON'S  WAR  SONG. 

BY    J.    A.    WAGNER. 

Arise  !  arise  I  with  main  and  might, 

Sons  of  the  sunny  clime  ! 
Gird  on  the  sword ;  the  sacred  fight 

The  holy  hour  doth' chime. 
Arise  !  the  hostile  host  draws  nigh, 

In  thundering  array ; 
Arise  !  ye  brave  !  let  cowards  fly — 

The  hero  bides  the  fray. 

Strike  hard,  strike  hard,  ye  noble  band, 

Strike  hard,  with  arm  of  fire ! 
Strike  hard,  for  God  and  fatherland, 

For  mother,  wife  and  sire  ! 
Let  thunders  roar,  the  lightning  flash, 

Bold  Southrons  !  never  fear 
The  bay'net's  point,  the  sabre's  clash ! 

True  Southrons  do  and  dare  ! 

Bright  flowers  spring  from  the  hero's  grave, 

The  craven  knows  no  rest, — • 
Thrice  cursed  the  traitor  and  the  knave, 

The  hero  thrice  is  blessed. 
Then  let  each  noble  Southron  stand 

With  bold  and  manly  eye  ; 
We'll  do  for  God  and  fatherland ! 

We'll  do,  we'll  do  or  die ! 

Charleston  Courier,  June  llth,  1861. 

4* 


46  SOUTHERN   POEMS 


"ON   TO   RICHMOND." 

(After  Southcy' s  March  to  Moscoiv.} 

BY  JNO.  K.  THOMPSON. 
I 

Major-General  Scott 

An  order  had  got 

To  push  on  the  column  to  Richmond, — 

For  loudly  went  forth, 

From  all  parts  of  the  North, 

The  cry  that  an  end  of  the  war  must  be  made 

In  time  for  the  regular  yearly  fall  trade. 

Mr.  Greely  spoke  freely  about  the  delay, 

The  Yankees  "  to  hum  "  were  all  hot  for  the  fray  ; 

The  chivalrous  gray 

Declared  they  were  slow, 

And  therefore  the  order 

To  march  from  the  border, 

And  make  an  excursion  to  Richmond. 

Major-General  Scott 

Most  likely  was  not 

Very  loth  to  obey  this  instruction,  I  wot ; 

In  his  private  opinion 

The  ancient  Dominion 

Deserved  to  be  pillaged — her  sons  to  be  shot ; 

And  the  reason  is  easily  noted: 

Though  this  part  of  the  earth     . 

Had  given  him  birth, 


OF    THE     WAR.  47 

And  medals  and  swords, 

Inscribed  with  fine  words, 

It  never  for  Winfield  had  voted. 

Besides,  you  must  know  that  our  first  of  commanders 

Had  sworn  quite  as  hard  as  the  army  in  Flanders, 

With  his  finest  of  armies  and  proudest  of  navies, 

To  wreak  his  old  grudge  against  Jefferson  Davis. 

Then,  "  Forward  the  column,"  he  said  to  McDowell ; 

And  the  Zouaves,  with  a  shout, 

Most  fiercely  cried  out, 

To  Richmond  or  h-11,  (I  omit  here  the  vowel,) 

And  Winfield,  he  ordered  his  carriage  and  four, 

A  dashing  turn-out,  to  be  brought  to  the  door, 

For  a  pleasant  excursion  to  Richmond. 

0 

Major-General  Scott 

Had  there  on  the  spot 

A  splendid  array 

To  plunder  and  slay  ; 

In  the  camp  he  might  boast 

Such  a  numerous  host 

As  he  never  had  yet 

On  the  battle-field  set ; 

Every  class  and  condition  of  Northern  society 

Were  in  for  the  trip — a  most* varied  variety  ; 

In  the  camp  he  might  hear  every  lingo  in  vogue, 

"  The  sweet  German  accent,  the  rich  Irish  brogue," 

The  beautiful  boy 

From  the  banks  of  the  Shannon, 

Was  there  to  employ 

His  excellent  cannon, 


48  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

And  beside  the  long  files  of  dragoons  and  artillery, 

The  Zouaves  and  Hussars, 

All  the  children  of  Mars, 

There  were  barbers  and  cooks, 

And  writers  of  books, 

The  chef  de  cuisine,  with  his  French  bill  of  fare, 

And  artists  to  dress  the  young  officers'  hair, 

And  the  scribblers  all  ready  at  once  to  prepare 

An  eloquent  story 

Of  conquest  and  glory, 

And  servants  with  numberless  baskets  of  Sillery. 

Though  Wilson,  the  Senator,  followed  the  train, 

At  a  distance  quite  safe,  to  "  conduct  the  champagne ;" 

While  the  fields  were  so  green,  and  the  sky  was  so  blue, 

There  was  certainly  nothing  more  pleasant  to  do, 

On  this  pleasant  excursion  to  Kichmond. 

In  Congress,  the  talk,  as  I  said,  was  of  action, 

To  crush  out  at  once  the  traitorous  faction. 

In  the  press  and  the  mess 

They  would  hear  nothing  less, 

Than  to  make  the  advance,  spite  of  rhyme  or  of  reason, 

And  at  once  put  an  end  to  the  insolent  treason. 

There  was  Greely, 

And  Ely, 

The  blood-thirsty  Grow, 

And  Hickman  (the  rowdy,  not  Hickman.  the  beau,) 

And  that  terrible  Baker, 

Who  would  seize  on  the  South — every  acre, 

And  Webb,  who  would  drive  us  all  into  the  Gulf,  or 

Some  nameless  locality  smelling  of  sulphur. 


OF    THE    WAR.  49 

And  with  all  this  bold  crew 

Nothing  would  do 

While  the  fields  were  so  green,  and  the  sky  was  so  blue, 

But  to  march  on  directly  to  Richmond. 

Then  the  gallant  McDowell 

Drove  madly  the  rowel 

Of  spur  that  had  never  been  "won"  by  him, 

In  the  flank  of  his  steed, 

To  accomplish  a  deed 

Such  as  never  before  had  been  done  by  him. 

And  the  battery  called  Sherman's, 

Was  wheeled  into  line, 

While  the  beer-drinking  Germans 

From  Neckar  and  Rhine, 

With  Minnie  and  Yager, 

Came  on  with  a  swagger, 

Full  of  fury  and  lager. 

(The  day  and  the  pageant  were  equally  fine,) 

Oh,  the  fields  were  so  green  and  the  sky  was  so  blue, 

Indeed,  'twas  a  spectacle  pleasant  to  view 

As  the  column  pushed  onward  to  Richmond. 


Ere  the  march  was  begun, 

In  spirit  of  fun 

General  Scott,  in  a  speech, 

Said  this  army  should  teach 

The  Southrons  the  lesson  the  laws  to  obey, 

And  just  before  dusk  of  the  third  or  fourth 

Should  joyfully  march  into  Richmond. 


50  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

He  spoke  of  their  drill, 

Of  their  courage  and  skill, 

And  declared  that  the  ladies  of  Richmond  would  rave 

O'er  such  matchless  perfections,  and  gracefully  wave, 

In  rapture,  their  delicate  kerchiefs  in  air, 

At  their  morning  parades  on  the  Capitol  Square. 

But  alack  !  and  alas  ! 

Mark  what  soon  came  to  pass, 

When  this  army,  in  spite  of  his  flatteries, 

Amid  war's  loudest  thunder 

Did  most  stupidly  blunder 

Upon  those  accursed  "  masked  batteries." 

There  Beauregard  came, 

Like  a  tempest  of  flame, 

To  consume  them  in  wrath, 

On  their  perilous  path ; 

And  Johnston  bore  down  in  a  whirlwind  to  sweep 

Their  ranks  from  the  field, 

Where  their  doom  had  been  sealed, 

As  the  storm  rushes  over  the  face  of  the  deep ; 

While  swift  on  the  centre  our  President  pressed, 

And  the  foe  might  descry, 

In  the  glance  of  his  eye, 

The  light  that  once  blazed  upon  Diomed's  crest. 

McDowell !  McDowell !  weep,  weep  for  the  day, 

When  the  Southrons  ye  met  in  their  battle  array ; 

To  your  confident  hosts,  with  its  bullets  and  steel, 

'TwaT  worse  than  Culloden  to  luckless  Lochiel ! 

Oh !  the  Generals  were  green,  and  old  Scott  is  now  blue, 

And  a  terrible  business,  McDowell,  to  you, 

Was  that  pleasant  excursion  to  Richmond. 


OF    THE     WAR.  51 


BATTLE    EVE. 

I  see  the  broad  red  setting  sun 
Sink  slowly  down  the  sky,— 

I  see,  amid  the  cloud-built  tents, 
His  blood-stained  standard  fly, 

And  meek,  meanwhile,  the  pallid  moon 
Looks  from  her  place  on  high. 

0,  setting  sun,  awhile  delay  1 

Linger  on  sea  and  shore, — 
For  thousand  eyes  now  gaze  on  thee 

That  shall  not  see  thee  more ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  proudly  now, 

Whose  race  like  thine  is  o'er ! 

0,  ghastly  moon  !  thy  pallid  ray 

On  paler  brows  shall  lie  ! 
On  many  a  torn  and  bleeding  heart, 

On  many  a  glazing  eye  ; 
And  breaking  hearts  shall  live  to  mourn 

For  whom  'twere  bliss  to  die. 


52  SOUTHERN   POEMS 

MANASSAS. 

BY    MRS.    C.    A.    WARFIELD,    JULY,    1861. 

They  have  met  at  last,  as  storm-clouds 

Meet  in  heaven, 
And  the  Northmen,  back  and  bleeding 

Have  been  driven ; 
And  their  thunder  has  been  stilled, 
And  their  leaders  crushed  or  killed, 
And  their  ranks  with  terror  thrilled, 

Kent  and  riven. 

Like  the  leaves  of  Vallambrosa 

They  are  lying, 
In  the  midnight  and  the  moonlight, 

Dead  or  dying ; 

.    Like  those  leaves  before  the  gale, 
Fled  their  legions — wild  and  pale — 
Wnile  the  host  that  made  them  quail 

Stood  defying ! 

When  in  the  morning  sunlight 

Flags  were  flaunted, 
And  "Vengeance  on  the  Kebels" 

Proudly  vaunted, 
They  little  dreamed  that  night 
WTould  close  upon  their  flight, 
And  the  victor  of  the  fight 

Stand  undaunted. 


OF    THE     WAR.  53 


But  peace  to  those  who  perished 

In  our  passes, 
Light  be  the  earth  above  them, 

Green  the  grasses. 
Long  shall  Northmen  rue  the  day, 
When  in  battle's  wild  affray, 
They  met  the  South' s  array 

At  Manassas. 


"OUR    LEFT." 

From  dawn  to  dark  they  stood, 
That  long  midsummer's  day  ! 

While  fierce  and  fast 

The  battle-blast 

Swept  rank  on  rank  away  ! 

From  dawn  to  dark,  they  fought 
With  legions  swept  and  cleft, 

While  black  and  wide 

The  battle  tide 

Poured  ever  on  our  "  Left ! " 

They  closed  each  ghastly  gap  ! 

They  dressed  each  shattered  rank, 
They  knew  full  well 
That  Freedom  fell 

With  that  exhausted  flank  ! 


54  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

"  Oil !  for  a  thousand  men, 
Like  these  that  melt  away  ! " 

And  down  they  came, 

With  steel  and  flame, 

Four  thousand  to  the  fray  ! 

They  left  the  laggard  train, 
The  panting  steam  might  stay ; 

And  down  they  came, 

With  steel  and  flame, 

Head-foremost  to  the  fray  ! 

Right  through  the  blackest  cloud 
Their  lightning  path  they  cleft ! 

Freedom  and  Fame, 

With  triumph  came 
To  our  immortal  Left. 

Ye  !  of  your  living,  sure  ! 

Ye  !  of  your  dead,  bereft !  - 
Honor  the  brave 
Who  died  to  save 

Your  all,  upon  our  Left. 


OF    THE     WAR.  55 


THE   BATTLE   OF   MANASSAS. 

BY  MRS.  CLARKE,  WIFE  OF  COL.  CLARKE,   14TII  REG.    N.  CAROLINA. 
DEDICATED   TO   GEN.    BEAUREGARD,   C.    S.   A. 

"  Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts  ! "  oh.,  bless  and  praise 

His  name, 
That  He  hath  battled  in  our  cause,  and  brought  our  foes 

to  shame ; 
And  honor  to  our  Beauregard,  who  conquered  in  His 

might, 
And  for  our  children's  children  won,  Manassas'  bloody 

fight. 
Oh,  let  our  thankful  prayers  ascend,  our  joyous  praise 

resound, 
For  •  God — the  God   of  victory,  our  untried   flag  hath 

crowned ! 

They  brought  a  mighty  army,  to  crush  us  with  a  blow, 
And  in  their  pride  they  laughed  to  scorn  the  men  they 

did  not  know ; 

Fair  women  came  to  triumph,,  with  the  heroes  of  the  day, 
When  "the  boasting  Southern  rebels"  should  be  scat 
tered  in  dismay. 
And  for  their  conquering  Generals,  a  lordly  feast  they 

spread, 

But  the  wine  in  which  we  pledged  them,  was  all  of  ruby 
red! 


56  SOUTHERN   POEMS 

The  feast  was  like  Belshazzar's — in  terror  and  dismay, 

Before  our  conquering  heroes,  their  armies  fled  away. 

God  had  weighed  them  in  the  balance,  and  His  hand 
upon  the  wall, 

At  the  taking  of  Fort  Sumter,  had  fore-doomed  them  to 
their  fall. 

But  they  would  not  heed  the  warning,  and  scoffed  in 
unbelief, 

Till  'their  scorn  was  changed  to  wailing,  and  their  laugh 
ter  into  grief ! 

All  day  the  fight  was  raging,  and  amid  the    cannon's 

peal, 
Rang  the  cracking  of  our  rifles,  and  the  clashing  of  our 

steel ; 

But  above  the  din  of  battle,  our  shout  of  triumph  rose, 
As  we  charged  upon  their  batteries,  and  turned  them  on 

our  foes. 
We  staid  not  for  our  fallen,    and  we  thought  not  of -our 

dead, 
Until  the  day  was  ours,  and  the  routed  foe  had  fled. 

But  once   our  spirits   faltered— Bee   and   Bartow  both 

were  down, 
And  our  gallant  Colonel  Hampton  lay  wounded  on 'the 

-  ground ; 
But  Beauregard,  God  bless  him !  led  the  Legion  in  his 

stead, 
And  Johnston  seized  the  colors,  and  waved  them  o'er 

his  head ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  57 

E'en  a  coward  must  have  followed,  when  such  heroes 

led  the  way, 
And  no  dastard  blood  was  flowing  in   Southern  veins 

that  day ! 

But  every  arm  was  strengthened,  and  every  heart  was 

stirred, 
"When  shouts  of  "  Davis  !    Davis  ! "    along  our  lines  were 

heard. 

As  he  rode  into  the  battle  the  joyful  news  flew  fast — 
And  the  dying  raised  their  voices  and  cheered  him  as  he 

passed. 

Oh  !  with  such  glorious  leaders,  in  Cabinet  and  field, 
The  gallant  Southern  chivalry  will  die,  but  never  yield  ! 

But  from  the  wings  of  victory,  the  shafts  of  death  were 

sped, 
And  our  pride  is  dashed  with  sorrow  when  we  count  our 

noble  dead  f 
Though  in  our  hearts  they're  living — and  our  children 

we  will  tell 

How  gloriously  our  Fisher  and  our  gallant  Johnson  fell ; 
And  the  name  of  each  we'll  cherish  as  an  honor  to  his 

State, 
And  teach  our  sons  to  envy,  and,  if  need  be,  meet  their 

fate. 

t 
"  Then  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts ! "  oh,  bless  and  praise 

his  name, 

For  he  hath  battled  in  our  -cause,  and  brought  our  foes 
to  shame. 


58  SOUTHERN   POEMS 

And  honor  to  our  Beauregard,  who  conquered  in  His 

might, 
And  for  our  children's  children,  won  Manassas'  bloody 

fight. 
Oh !  let  our  grateful  prayers  ascend,  our  joyous  praise 

resound, 
For   God — the   God  of  victory  our   untried   flag  hath 

crowned  1 


VIRGINIA'S    JEWELS. 

BY    MISS    REBECCA   POWELL.    OF    VIRGINIA. 

"  These  are  my  jewels,"  said  a  Eoman  dame, 
Long  years  ago  ; — Virginia  says  the  same, 
And  proudly  shows  the  sons,  who  at  her  call 
Have  gathered  swift  from  cottage  and  from  hall, 
And  stand  beneath  our  skies,  a  noble  band, 
Ready  to  perish  for  their  own  native  land. 

"  These  are  my  jewels," — ne'er  was  matron's  brow 

More  richly  gemmed  than  is  Virginia's  now ; 

Diamond  and  ruby  pale  before  the  light 

Of  souls  inspired  by  the  sense  of  right ; 

Of  hearts  with  feeling  and  with  virtue  fraught, 

Eyes  lit  with  truth  and  shadowed  deep  with  thought. 

Not  on  her  brow  alone  these  jewels  rest, 
Some  richer  still  are  garnered  in  her  breast ; 


OF    TEE     WAR.  59 

Oh,  with  what  mingled  love,  and  grief,  and  pride, 
She  points  to  those  who  for  her  sake  have  died ! 
How  tenderly  she  clasps  them  to  her  heart, 
Ne'er  from  her  fond  embrace  again  to  part. 

Oh,  Martyrs  of  Manassas  !  ye  whose  names, 

Though  writ  in  light  are  still  more  love's  than  fame's. 

Long  shall  Virginia's  sons  and  daughters  tell, 

How  nobly  on  that  bloody  day  ye  fell, 

And  at  a  priceless  cost  redeemed  our  land, 

From  the  fell  grasp  of  the  invader's  hand. 

Sons  of  Virginia,  falter  not, — to  you 

The  loved,  the  tried,  the  trusted  and  the  true, 

Her  hearths,  her  homes,  her  sacred  honor — all 

For  which  men  live, — in  whose  defense  they  fall — 

Your  mother  gives,  be  faithful  to  the  trust, 

For,  lo  !  your  brothers'  blood  calls  from  the  dust. 

Be  strong,  courageous,  steadfast,  trust  in  God, 
Humbly  submissive  to  His  chastening  rod, 
Christ's  faithful  soldiers  on  the  tented  field, 
In  Him  your  trust,  His  providence  your  shield, 
So  shall  God's  blessing  to  our  arms  be  given, 
And  peace  on  angels'  wings  descend  from  Heaven. 


60  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

MARYLAND ! 

BY    JAMES    II.    RANDALL. 

The  despot's  lieel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland ! 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  necked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Hark  to  thy  wand' ring  son's  appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My  mother  State  !  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland ! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland  ! 

Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust ; 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, 
•And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  Just, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 


OF     THE     WAR.  Gl 

Come !  'tis  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland ! 
Come  !  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland ! 

With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood,  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe,  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Dear  mother,  burst  the  Tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland ! 

SHE  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain, 
11  Sic  Semper"-—  'tis  the  proud  refrain, 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Come  !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come  !  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland ! 

Come  !  to  thine  own  heroic  throng, 
That  stalks  with  Liberty  along, 
And  ring  thy  dauntless  slogan  song, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 
5 


62  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

But  lo  !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek — • 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland  ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland ! 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  shot — the  blade — the  bowl — 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland ! 
The  Old  Line  bugle,  fife  and  drum, 

Maryland ! 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb ; 
Huzza !  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum  ! 
She  breathes — she  burns  !  she'll  come  !  she'll 
come ! 

Maryland!     My  Maryland! 


OF    THE     WAR.  63 


CHARGE    OF    THE    NIGHT   BRIGADE. 

At  three  o'clock,  three  o'clock, 
Three  o'clock,  onward, 
All  in  the  silent  streets — 

Strode  the  twelve  hundred  ! 
Forward,  the  Night  Brigade  ! 
"  March  to  Kane's  house  !"  he  said. 
On  through  the  silent  streets 

Strode  the  twelve  hundred ! 

"  Forward  !  the  Night  Brigade  !" 
Was  there  a  man  dismayed  ? 
Not  though  the  Yankees  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered ; 
Theirs,  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs,  but  to  go  and  try 
To  catch  one  man  on  the  sly, 

Gallant  twelve  hundred ! 

Houses  to  right  of  them, 
Houses  to  left  of  them  ; 
Some  were  "to  let"  of  them, 

While  the  men  wondered, 
Whether,  if  shot  and  shell, 
From  the  roofs  of  them  fell, 

Some  would  not  go  to well 

Where  there'd  be  hot  work  a  spell, 

For  the  twelve  hundred. 


64  SOUTHERN   POEMS 

Flashed  all  their  bayonets  bare, 
Flash'd  in  the  gas-lit  air, 
Whom  did  they  hope  to  scare, 
Marching  at  dead  of  night  ? 
All  the  town  slumbered, 
Plunged  in  the  depths  of  sleep, 
None  did  a  vigil  keep  ; 
All  the  poor  pelicans 
Grabbed  ere  they  had  a  peep, 
Overpowered — outnumbered. 
Straight  up  St.  Pauls  street 
Strode  the  twelve  hundred. 

Houses  to  right  of  them, 
Houses  to  left  of  them, 
Law  books  in  some  of  them, 

Still  they  marched  onward — • 
Straight  to  the  house  of  Kane  ; 
Straight  on,  the  way  was  plain, 
Seized  him,  with  might  and  main, 
As  if  "  the  mark  of  Cain  " 
Was  on  him — so  back  again 

Strode  the  twelve  hundred ! 

When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
Oh  !  the  wild  charge  they  made, 

All  the  town  wonde-red  ! 
Honor  the  charge  they  made  ? 
No,  sir  !  for  I'm  afraid 
They  can't  prove  the  charge  they  made. 

"  Took  in  " — t.welve  hundred  ! 

BALTIMOBE,  July  13th,  1801. 


OF    THE     WAR.  65 


"THERE'S  LIFE  IN  THE  OLD  LAND  YET." 

BY    F.     K.     HOWARD. 

Though  the  soil  of  old  Maryland  echoes  the  tread 

Of  an  insolent  soldiery  now, 
And  a  lurid  glare  reddens  the  sky  overhead 

From  the  camp-fires'  lighted  below ; 
Though  from  mountain  to  shore  the  hoarse  cannon  roar, 

And  from  border  to  border  are  sentinels  set, 
Whose  bayonets  shine  in  unbroken  line, 

There  is  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet ! 

Though  by  treacherous  hearts  and  unloyal  hands, 

Betrayed  and  disabled  to-day, 
And  deserted  at  need  by  her  sons,  she  stands 

Confronting  an  armed  array  : 
Though  tyrannous  might  hath  o'erborne  the  right, 

Hatl}  discrowned  and  despoiled  her,  and  men  forget 
As  they  bow  the  knee,  that  they  once  were  free — 

There's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet ! 

But  though  patient  and  mute,  she  is  still  undismay'd, 

Though  passive,  she  is  not  subdued, 
Though  she  shrinks  from  unsheathing  her  trusty  blade 

In  a  fratricidal  feud, 
Not  long  will  she  kneel,  when  oppression's  heel, 

On  her  neck,  is  by  Monarch  or  President  set, 
And  the  blood  even  now,  is  mantling  her  brow, 

For  there's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet ! 


C6  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

She  remembers  with  pride,  what  her  children  have  done 

In  the  perilous  days  of  yore  ; 
And  will  never  relinquish  the  rights  which  they  won, 

Or  disgrace  the  flag  they  bore. 
Then  let  those  beware,  who  boastfully  swear 

They  will  conquer  her  now,  for  their  vaunt  will  be 

met, 
And  the  Maryland  men,  shall  be  heard  of  again — 

For  there's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet ! 

July  Uth,  1866. 


"INDEPENDENCE  DAY." 

Oh,  Freedom  is  a  blessed  thing ! 

And  men  have  marched  in  stricken  fields, 
And  fought,  and  bled,  to  nobly  grasp 

The  glorious  fruits  that  f  ledom  yields. 
Then  let  the  banner  flout  the  air, 

The  fairest  once  of  freedom's  types — 
The  stars  are  fading  one  by  one — 

What  matter  ?     We  have  still  the  stripes  ! 
Oh  !  happy  men  of  Maryland, 

Eemember  !  we  have  still  the  stripes  ! 

Why  heed  the  cannon  in  your  streets, 
The  bayonets  that  block  your  way? 

Rejoice,  for  you  were  freemen  once, 
And  this  is,  "  Independence  Day." 


OF    THE     WAR.  G7 

Then  let  the  banner  flout  the  air, 

The  fairest  once  of  freedom's  types — 

The  stars  are  fading  one  by  one — 

What  matter  ?     We  have  still  the  stripes  ! 

Oh  !  happy  men  of  Maryland, 
Kemember  !  we  have  still  the  stripes  ! 


AEE    WE    FREE? 

BY    JAMES    R.    BBEWKK. 

Are  we  free  ?  go  ask  the  question 

In  the  cells  of  Lafayette, 
Ask  it  of  your  chain-girt  brothers, 

Shut  within  its  parapet ; 
Ask  it  of  the  silent  journals, 

Crushed  bqpeath  an  iron  hand ; 
Ask  it  of  the  mighty  armies 

Quartered  on  a  groaning  land. 
To  them  let  the  question  be, 

Friends  and  brothers  !  are  we  free  ? 
I 

Ask  it  of  the  helpless  women, 
Shut  within  a  prison's  grate  ; 

Ask  it  of  the  weeping  loved  ones, 
Mourning  o'er  their  wretched  fate 

Ask  it  of  the  homes  deserted, 
And  the  hearths  made  desolate  ; 


SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Ask  it  of  the  freeman  punished 

.Who  rebukes  fanatic  hate. 
Speak  kindly,  lest  a  taunt  they  see 
In  the  question,  are  we  free  ? 

Ask  it  of  a  helpless  people 

Bending  to  a  tyrant's  throne  ; 
Ask  it  of  a  State  dismantled, 

And  her  sons'  indignant  groan ; 
Ask  it  of  the  wreck  of  freedom, 

Torn  and  strewn  on  every  hand ; 
Ask  it  of  your  State  dishonored, 

Prostrate,  helpless  Maryland ; 
Without  a  taunt  of  mockery, 
Ask  her,  if  we  still  are  free  ? 

Hear  the  answer  from  the  towers, 

In  the  clank  of  rusty  chains, 
And  the  press  in  silence  shows  us 

Where  the  unchecked  despot  reigns 
See  it  in  the  homes  deserted, 

And  the  hearths  made  desolate ; 
Hear  it  from  the  exiled  freeman 

Fleeing  from  his  native  State ; 
And  the  blushing  answer  '11  be, 
Maryland's  no  longer  free  ! 

Hear  it  in  the  wrail  of  women, 

From  the  mouldy  dungeon's  gloom ; 

Hear  it  in  the  sobs  of  children, 
Weeping  for  their  mothers'  doom  ; . 


OF    THE     WAR.  69 

Hear  it  in  the  shrieks  of  maidens 

Torn  from  friends'  and  brothers'  care — 

Hear  it  in  their  screams  of -terror, 
See  it  in  their  wild  despair — 

Answered  in  their  piercing  cries, 

Seen  in  tearful,  pleading  eyes. 

Hear  it  in  the  taunts  of  cowards, 

Who  accept  dishonor's  stains ; 
Hear  it  in  the  sullen  clanking 

Of  a  State's  ignoble  chains ; 
And  from  Freedom's  weeping  goddess, 

Fleeing  from  her  children's  graves, 
Comes  a  mother's  sobbing  answer, 

"  Power  binds  my  children  slaves  !" 
Whilst  groans  proclaim  from  hill  to  sea, 
"  Maryland  was,  but  is  not  free  !" 

ANNAPOLIS,  Oct.  22, 1861. 


5* 


70  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


THE  KENTUCKY  PARTIZAN. 

BY    PAUL   II.    HAYXE,    OF    SOUTH    CAROLINA. 
I. 

Hath  the  wily  Swamp  Fox 

Come  again  to  earth  ? 
Hath  the  soul  of  Sampler 

Owned  a  second  birth  ? 
From  the  Western  hill-slopes 

Starts  a  hero-form, 
Stalwart,  like  the  oak  tree, 

Tameless,  like  the  storm  !  ' 
His  an  eye  of  lightning  ! 

His  a  heart  of  steel ! 
Flashing  deadly  vengeance, 

Thrilled  with  fiery  zeal ; 
Hound  him  down,  ye  minions, 

Seize  him  if  ye  can  ; 
But  wo  betide  the  hireling  knave 
That  meets  him,  man  to  man  ! 

II. 

"Well  done  !  gallant  Morgan  f 
Strike  with  might  and  main, 

Till  the  fair  field  redden 
AVith  a  gory  rain  ; 

Smite  them  by  the  roadside, 
Smite  them  in  the  wood, 


OF    THE     WAR.  71 

By  the  lonely  valley, 

And  the  purpling  flood ; 
'Neath  the  mystic  starlight, 

'Neath  the  glare  of  day, 
Harrass,  sting,  affright  them, 

Scatter  them,  and  slay. 
Beard,  who  durst,  our  Chieftain  ! 

Bind  him — if  you  can — 
But  wo  betide  the  Hessian  thief 
Who  meets  him,  man  to  man ! 


in. 

There's  a  lurid  purpose 

Brooding  in  his  breast, 
Born  of  solemn  passion  . 

And  a  deep  unrest, 
For  our  ruined  homesteads, 

And  our  ravaged  land, 
For  our  wTomen  outraged 

By  the  dastard  hand. 
For  our  thousand  sorrows, 

And  our  untold  shame, 
For  our  blighted  harvests, 

For  our  towns  of  flame — 
He  has  sworn  (and  recks  not 

Who  may  cross  his  path,) 
That  the  foe  shall  feel  him 

In  his  fervid  wrath— 
That,  while  will  and  spirit 

Hold  one  spark  of  life, 


72  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Blood  shall  stain  -his  broad-sword, 

Blood  shall  wet  his  knife. 
On  !  ye  Hessic^n  horsemen  ! 

Crush  him — if  ye  can  ! 
But  wo  betide  your  staunchest  slave 
Who  meets  him,  man  to  man ! 


IV.    ' 

"Tis  no  time  for  pleasure  ! 

Doff  the  silken  vest ! 
Up,  my  men  !  and  follow 

Marion  of  the  West ! 
Strike  with  him  for  freedom ; 

Strike  Avith  main  and  might, 
'Neath  the  noon  of  splendor, 

'Neath  the  gloom  of  night. 
Strike  by  rock  and  roadside, 

Strike  in  wold  and  wood, 
By  the  shadowy  valley, 

By  the  purpling  flood. 
On  !  where  Morgan's  wrar-horse 

Thunders  in  the  van, 
God  !  who  would  not  gladly  die 

Beside  that  glorious  man  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  73 


JOHN  MOEGAN'S  credentials — 

The  very  essentials 
To  honor  and  glory,  you  know, 

Were  not  signed  at  West  P 

So  consequently, 
His  promotion  has  been  rather  slow. 


"Why,  d— n  it,"  says  Pat, 

As  he  stamps  on  his  hat, 
"  Does  shape-skins  make  soldiers — indade  ! 

On  the  temple  of  Fame 

They  ne'er  scratched  a  P 's  name 

Till  Morgan  first  taught  'em  to  raid!" 


THE  TOAST  OF  MORGAN'S  MEN. 

BY    CAPT.    THORPE,    OF    KY. 

Unclaimed  by  the  land  that  bore  us, 

Lost  in  the  land  we  find, 
The  brave  have  gone  before  us, 

Cowards  are  left  behind  ! 
Then  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady, 

Here's  a  health  to  those  we  prize, 
Here's  a  toast  to  the  dead  already, 

And  here's  to  the  next  who  dies. 


74  SOUTHERN   POEMS 


LOUISIANA. 

Ho !  Louisiana ! 

There  is  no  clime  like  thine, 
Land  of  the  broad  savanna, 

Land  of  the  citron  vine  ; 
Land  of  the  monarch  river, 

Of  lake  and  prairie  plain, 
Our  free-born  home  forever, 

A  beauteous,  bright  domain. 

Above,  the  deep  blue  heaven, 

Looks  down  with  laughing  eyes, 
And  breezes  mildly  driven, 

Float  o'er  thy  sunny  skies. 
Around,  rich  fields  extending, 

Are  clothed  in  emerald  green, 
And  birds  their  music  blending, 

On  every  bough  are  seen. 

With  orange  blossoms  laden, 

Or  golden  fruit,  each  bower 
Reveals  the  dark-eyed  maiden, 

Herself  a  fairer  flower. 
The  sunny  Creole  beauty, 

With  voice  of  song  and  mirth, 
And  true  to  love  and  duty, 

The  houri  of  the  earth. 


OF    THE     WAR.  75 

Ho !  Louisiana  ! 

Home  of  the  brave  and  free, 
Thy  fertile,  broad  savanna 

Goes  smiling  to  the  sea ; 
Where  princely  wealth  inherit, 

And  generous  thoughts  expand 
The  chivalric  high  spirits, 

The  guardians  of  the  land. 


CHARLES   B.   DREUX. 

BY    JAMES    U.    RANDALL. 

Weep,  Louisiana,  weep  thy  gallant  .dead  ! 
Weave  the  green  laurel  o'er  the  undaunted  head ! 
Fling  thy  bright  banner  o'er  the  heart  which  bled 

.    Defending  thee  ! 

"Weep — weep,  Imperial  City,  deep  and  wild ! 

Weep  for  thy  martyred  and  heroic  child, 

The  young,  the  brave,  the  free,  the  undefiled— 

Ah  !  weep  for  him  ! 

Lo !  the  wail  surges  from  embattled  bands, 
By  Yorktown's  plains  and  Pensacola's  sands, 
Re-echoing  to  the  golden  sugar  lands, 

Adieu !  Adieu  ! 


76  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

The  death  of  honor  was  the  death  he  craved, 

To  die  where  weapons  clashed  and  pennons  waved, 

To  welcome  freedom  o'er  the  opening  grave, 

And  live  for  aye. 

His  blood  had  too  much  lightning  to  be  still ; 

His  spirit  was  the  torrent,  not  the  rill ; 

The  gods  have  loved  him,  and  the  Eternal  Hill 

Is  his  at  last. 

He  died  while  yet  his  chainless  eye  could  roll, 
Flashing  the.  conflagrations  of  his  soul ! 
The  rose  and  mirror  of  the  bold  Creole, 

He  sleepeth  well  \ 

Lament,  lone  mother,  for  his  early  fate, 
But  bear  thy  burden  with  a  hope  elate, 
For  thou  hast  shrined  thy  jewel  in  the  stake, 

A  priceless  boon ! 

And  thou,  sad  wife,  thy  sacred  tears  belong 
To  the  untarnished  and  immortal  throng, 
For  he  shall  fire  the  poets  breast  and  song, 

In  thrilling  strains. 

And  the  fair  virgins  of  our  sunny  clime 
Shall  wed  their  music  to  the  minstrel's  rhyme, 
Making  his  fame  melodious  for  all  time — 

It  cannot  die. 


OF  THE  WAR.  77 

BEAUREGARD. 

BY    MRS.    C.    A.    WAKFIKLD,    OF    KY. 

[Written   after  the   Battle  of  Shiloh,    when  Beauregard  became 
Command  LT-in-  Chief.] 

Our  trust  is  now  in  thee, 

Beauregard ! 
x  In  thy  hand  the  God  of  Hosts 

Hath  placed  the  sword  ; 
And  the  glory  of  thy  name 
Has  set  the  world  aflame — 
Hearts  kindle  at  thy  name, 

Beauregard ! 

The  way  that  lies  before 

Is  cold  and  hard  ; 
We  are  lead  across  the  desert 

By  the  Lord ! 

But  the  cloud  that  .shines  by  night 
To  guard  our  steps  aright, 
Is  the  pillar  of  thy  might, 

Beauregard ! 

Thou  hast  watched  the  southern  heavens 

Evening  starred, 
And  chosen  thence  thine  emblems, 

Beauregard ; 


78  SOUTHER  N    P  0  EM  S 

And  upon  thy  banner's  fold, 
Is  tli;it  starry  cross  enrolled, 
"\\  liicli  no  northman  shall  behold 
Shamed  or  scarred. 

By  the  blood  that  crieth  loudly 

From  the  sward, 
We  have  sworn  to  keep  around  it 

Watch  and  ward, 
And  the  standard  of  thy  hand 
Yet  shall  shine  above  a  land, 
Like  its  leader,  free  and  grand — 

Beauregard ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  79 


BEAUREGARD'S    APPEAL. 

Yea !  since  the  need  is  bitter, 

Take  down  those  sacred  bells, 
Whose  music  speaks  of  our  hallowed  joys, 

And  passionate  farewells  ! 

But  ere  ye  fall  dismantled, 

Ring  out,  deep  Bells !  once  more : 

And  pour  on  the  waves'  of  the  passing  wind 
The  symphonies  of  yore. 

Let  the  latest  born  be  welcomed 

By  pealin^s  glad  and  long, 
Let  the  latest  dead  in  the  churchyard,  bed 

Be  laid  with  solemn  song. 

And  the  bells  above  them  throbbing, 

Should  sound  in  mournful  tone, 
As  if  in  the  grief  for  a  human  death, 

They  prophesied  their  own. 

Who  says  'tis  a  desecration 

To  strip  the  Temple  Towers, 
And  invest  the  metal  of  peaceful   notes 

With  death-compelling  powers  ? 

A  truce  to  cant  and   folly ! 
With  Faith  itself  at  stake, 


80  SOUTHERN   POEMS 

Shall  we  heed  the  cry  of  the  shallow  fool, 
Or  pause  for  the  bigot's  sake  ? 

Then,  crush  the  struggling  sorrow  ! 

Feed  high  your  furnace  fires, 
That  shall  mould  into  deep-mouthed   guns  of 
bronze, 

The  bells  from  a  hundred  spires. 

Methinks  no  common  vengeance — 

No  transient  war  eclipse — 
Will  follow  the  awful  thunder  burst 

From  their  "adamantine  lips." 

A  cause  like  ours  is  holy, 

And  useth  holy  things, 
And  over  the  storm  of  a  righteous  strife, 

May"  shine  the  Angel's  wings. 

Where'er  our  duty  leads  us, 

The  Grace  of  God  is  there, 
And  the  lurid  shrine  of  War  may  hold 

The  Eucharist  of  prayer. 


OF    THE     WAR.  81 


SABBATH    BELLS.  * 

Those  Sabbath  bells  !     Those  Sabbath  bells ! 
No  more  their  soothing  music  tells 
Of  boyhood's  dawn  and  manhood's  prime, 
Cheered  by  their  morn  and  evening  chime. 

No  more  those  notes  shall  float  through  air 
To  call  us  to  the  House  of  Prayer ! 
No  more  their  silvery  welcome  greet 
The  Christian  at  the  Mercy  Seat! 

A  fiercer  warning  now  they  tell — 
Let  the  oppressor  hear  it  well ! 
Nor  dare  the  stern,  relentless  might, 
Upholding  truth — 'defending  right ! 

And  still  we  hail  the  voice  that  swells 
In  thunder  from  those  Sabbath  bells, 
Proclaiming,  in  defiant  tone, 
We  own  no  Master,  save  the  ONE  ! 

Charleston  Mercury. 


*  A  number  of   Churches  in  the  South  gave  their  bells  to  the  Confederate 
authorities  to  be  cast  into  cannon. 


82  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


MARCH    ON!    CAROLINIANS,    MARCH    ON! 

Written  on  reading  the  notice  of  the  death  of  Dr.  E.  S.  Buist,  one  of 
Carolina'' s  noblest  sens  and  irost  accomplished  gentlemen. 


BY      MRS.      FARLEY. 


The  chief  is  arming  in  his  hall, 

The  farmer  by  his  hearth. 
The  mourner  hears  the  thrilling  call 

And  rises  from  the  earth. 
The  mother  on  her  first-born  son 

Looks  with  a  boding  eye, 
They  come  not  back  though  all  be  won, 

Whose  young  hearts  leap  so  high. — Hemans. 


March,  on,  Carolinians !  "  our  hearts  leap  so  high," 
"When  the  young  and  devoted  martyr-like  die ; 
Oh !  we'll  deem  it  joy  to  stand  'mid  the  showers 
Of  shot  and  of  shell  in  a  cause  such  as  ours. 

March  on  !    Carolinians,  march  on  ! 

At  his  post  in  the  conflict  he  fearlessly  fell, 
Let  us  snatch  one  moment  to  murmur — farewell ! 
He  has  gone,  his  career  was  brilliant  as  brief, 
"  So  to-day  for  revenge,  to-morroiu  for  grief." 

March  on  !    Carolinians,  march  on  ! 

Too  indignant  our  feelings,  too  solemn  for  tears, 
In  our  hearts  let  them  sleep  for  long-coming  years. 


OF    THE     WAR.  83 

The  blood  of  our  brother  cries  up  from  the  ground, 
In  all  Carolina  no   laggard  is  found. 

March  on !    Carolinians,  march  on  ! 

The  flag  of   his  country  to  the  breeze  we  will   cast, 
His  dirge  shall  be  heard   in    the  war-trumpet's  blast.! 
To  arms  !  then,  to  arms  !  all  ye  sons  of  the  South  ! 
Speak,  ye  dauntless    of   soul,    from    the    cannon's  loud 
mouth. 

March  on  !    Carolinians,  march  on  ! 

So  proudly  their  ships  ride  the  waves  of   the  sea, 
Away !  then,  away !  to  the  coast  let  us  flee, 
We  burn !    oh !    we  burn  now  to  meet  them  in  strife, 
To  hurl  back  their  insults,  and  take  "life  for  life." 
March  on  !    Carolinians,  march  on  ! 

Fear  not  to  meet  death,  since  it  comes   once  to  all, 
In  defence  of   our  country  'tis  glorious  to  fall ; 
Far  better  in  death  to  lie  down  with  the  slain 
Than  to  languish  out  life  in  disgrace  and  in  pain. 
March  on  !    Carolinians,  march  on  ! 

LAURENSVILLE,  Nov.  20,  1861. 


84  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


CAROLINA. 

BY     MRS.     ANNA     PKYRE     DENNIES. 

INSCRIBED    TO    THE    PEE     DEE     LfcGION — GEN.    W.    Vf .    HARLLEE. 


"Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  has  said, 
This  is  my  own — my  native  land?— Scott. 


In  the  hour  of  thy  glory, 

When  thy  name  was  far  renowned, 
When  Sumter's  glowing  story 

Thy  bright  escutcheon  crowned ; 
Oh,  noble  Carolina !  how  proud  a  claim  was  mine, 
That  through  homage,  and  through  duty,  and  bithright, 
I  was  thine. 

Exulting  as  I  heard  thee, 
Of  every  lip  the  theme, 
Prophetic  visions  stirred  me 

In  hope's  illumined  dream — 

A  dream  of  dauntless  valor,  of  battles  fought  and  won, 
Where  each  field  was  but  a  triumph — a  hero  every  son. 

And  now  when  clouds  arise, 
And  shadows  round  thee  fall, 

I  lift  to  Heaven  my  eyes 
Those  visions  to  recall ; 


OF    THE     WAR.  85 

For  I  cannot  deem    that  darkness  will  rest  upon  thee 

long- 
Oh,    lordly    Carolina !    with    thy    heart    so    brave    and 

strong. 

Thy  serried  ranks  of  pine, 

Thy  live  oaks  spreading  wide, 
Beneath  the  sunbeams  shine 
In  fadeless  robes  of  pride  ; 
Thus  marshaled  on  their    native  soil  thy  gallant  sons 

stand  forth, 
As  changeless  as  thy  forest  green,  defiant  of  the  North . 

The  deeds  of  other  days 
Enacted  by  their  sires, 
Themes  long  of  love  and  praise, 

Have  wakened  high  desires 

In  every  heart  that  beats  within  thy  proud  domain, 
To  cherish    their    remembrance,  and    live  those  scenes 
again. 

Each  heart  the  home  of  daring, 
Each  hand  the  foe  of  wrong, 
They'll  meet  with  haughty  bearing 

The  war-ships  thunder  song ; 

And  though  the  base  invader  pollutes  thy.sacred  shore, 
They'll  meet  him  as  undaunted  as  their  fathers  did   of 
yore. 

His  feet  may  press  thy  soil, 

His  numbers  bear  thee   down, 
6 


86  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

In  his  vandal  raid  for  spoil 
His  sordid  soul  to  crown  ; 
But  his  triumph  will  be  fleeting,  for  the  hour  is  drawing 

near 

When  the   war-cry    of   thy  cavaliers    shall    strike    his 
startled  ear. 

A  fearful  time  shall  come 

.When  thy  gathering  bands  unite, 
And  the  larum  sounding  drum 

Calls  to  struggle  for  the  right; 

"Pro  aris  et  pro  focis,"  from  rank  to  rank  shall  fly, 
As  they  meet  the  dastard  foeman  to  conquer  or  to  die. 

Oh!  then  a  tale  of  glory 

Shall  yet  again  be  thine, 
And  the  record  of  thy  story 
TJie  laurel  shall  entwine  ; 

Oh,  noble  Carolina !  oh,  proud  and  lordly  State ! 
Heroic  deeds  shall    crown   thee,  and  the  Nations  own 
thee  great! 

NEW  ORLEANS,  December  1,  1861. 


OF    THE     WAR.  87 


THE    TENNESSEE    EXILE'S    SONG. 

I  hear  the  rushing  of  her  streams, 
The  murmuring  of  her  trees, 

The  exile's  anguish  swells  my  heart 
And  melts  with  each  soft  breeze. 

'Midst  other  scenes  her  corn-hills  wave, 
Her  mountains  pierce  the  sky — 

Where,  where  are  they  who  swore  to  save- 
To  conquer,  or  to  die  ? 

They  come,  from  every  blue  hill-side, 

From  every  lovely  dale, 
The  heart,  the  soul,  the  very  pride 

Of  mountain,  hill,  and  vale ; 
They  court,  like  Anak's  stalwart  sons, 

The  rapture  of  the  strife, 
Drink  in  the  earthquake  of  the  guns, 

To  them,  the  breath  of  life. 

Spare  not  the  invading  mongrel  hordes, 

But  slay  them  as  they  stand ! 
Strike !  Tennessee  has  living  swords, 

The  best  in  all  the  land  ! 
Strew  o'er  her  plains  their  hostile  lines, 

Drench  her  fair  fields  with  blood, 
Fill  their  long  ranks  with  bitter  groans — 

Let  blood  flow  like  a  flood ! 


SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Ay,  sow  the  seeds  of  lasting  hate 

At  Johnson's,  Hat-ton's  graves, 
And  do  their  deeds  and  dare  their  fate, 

Or  live  the  oppressors'  slaves  ! 
Bleed  freely,  as  you  bled  of  yore, 

In  every  well-fought  field, 
Press  round  the  flag  you  always  bore 

The  foremost — as  a  shield. 


I  feel  her  pulse  beat  high  and  quick, 

Her  sinews  stretch  for  strife, 
Full  come  her  heart-throbs  deep  and  thick, 

She  kindles  into  life  ! 
Though  Donelson  has  told  her  tale, 

And  Shiloh's  page  is  bright, 
There's  yet  a  bloodier  field  to  win, 

For  Nashville  and  the  right ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  89 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF   COL.  B.  F.  TERRY, 

The  gallant  commander  of  "The  Texas  Rangers,"  who  fell  at  the 
battle  of  Green  River,  in  defense  of  the  rights  and  liberties  of 
Kentucky,  his  native  State,  and  of  his  adopted  South. 


BY     J.     E.     BARRICK. 

There  is  a  wail 

As  if  the  voice  of  sadness  long  and  deep, 
Had  given  its  low  tones  to  the  Southern  gale, 
Sweeping  o'er  vale  and  steep. 

There  is  a  voice 

As  if  of  mingled  mourning  in  the  land, 

And  nature,  stricken,  ceases  to  rejoice, 

As  if  at  grief's  command. 

There  is  a  grief 

As  if  of  hearts  that  were  unused  to  mourn, 
And  sighs  and  sorrow  fail  to  bring  relief 
To  those  that  thus  bemoan. 

There  is  a  tear 

As  if  of  eyes  that  were  unused  to  tears — 
A  link  of  friendship  broken  that  was  dear — 
A  shadow  on  past  years. 

There  is  a  pall 

As  if  of  darkness  o'er  our  sun-land  spread, 

A  weight  of  weariness,  and  grief  on  all — 

Who  mourn  the  heroic  dead. 


90  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

The  south  winds  moan, 

The  south   winds   murmur   in    a   plaintive   strain, 
The   south   birds   warble    in   a   saddened   tone, 
And  the  land  groans  with  pain. 

The  Lone  Star  shines 

Less   brilliant   in   her   glow    of   Southern    skies, 
Since   he,    the   idol    of    her    cherished   shrines, 
In  death's  cold  slumber  lies. 

Back  to  the  State 

That  gave  him  birth,  his  spirit  bade  him  come 
To  share  the  peril  of  her  pending  fate, 
Far  from  his  chosen  home. 

There,  where  his  life 

First   coursed   the    channel    of   its   future   fame, 
He   fell,    the    foremost   in   the    deadly    strife, 
With  glory  to  his  name. 

Tho'  dead  to  earth, 

While   man   may   boast   that   he   is   not   a  slave 
Of   tyranny,    his   valor   and   his   worth 
The  tide  of  time  will  brave. 

Dear  unto  those 

To   whom   his   voice   in   battle   gave   command, 
Who,    now,    amid   the   terror   of  his   foes, 
Shall  head  that  gallant  band  ? 

Dear  to  the  State 

Of  his   adoption,  to   the   people   dear 
Whose   cause   he   proudly   strove,  to   illustrate, 
Who  now  shall  fill  his  sphere  ? 

GLASGOW,  KT.,  Dec.  18,  1861. 


OF    THE     WAR.  91 


THE    STRANGER'S    DEATH. 

No  mother  bends  with  tender  care 

To  kiss  his  burning  brow, 
No  father  kneels  in  earnest  prayer 

Beside  the  sufferer  now. 

No  sister's  gentle  voice  is  near, 

In  accents  mild  and  low, 
To  breathe  into  his  languid  ear 

The  love  that  sisters  know. 

Far  from  his  land  and  friends  and  home, 
Across  the  Mississippi's  wave, 

His  restless  spirit  bade  him  roam 
To  find  a  stranger's  grave. 

The  dews  of  death  are  on  his  brow, 

He  feels  the  tyrant's  power, 
But,  hark  !  he  speaks  of  kindred  now, 

In  this  last  trying  hour  : 

0,  Texas  !   dearest,  best  beloved, 

Land  of  my  father's  home — 
Though  from  thee  I  have  vainly  roved, 

For  thee  I've  come — I've  come. 


SOUTHERN    POEMS 

"  Land  of  the  mountains,  heath  and  stream 

O'er  Mississippi's  foam, 
Thou  lingerest  in  my  dying  dreams, 
My  Texas,  and  my  home  ! 

"  How  gently  could  I  sink  to  rest, 

If   but  my  dying  gaze 
Could  rest  on  those,  the  kindly-blest, 
The  loved  of  other  days  ! 

"Ah!  ye  are  there,  but  this  is  death, 

Friends,  I  am  with  you  still, 
And  must  I  yield  this  fleeting  breath, 
In  a  last,  and  sad  farewell  ? 

"  I  must — I  must — then,  fare  ye  well, 

Home,  and  loved  kindred  too, 
Death  soon  will  break  this  life's  vain  spell, 
Friends  of  my  youth — adieu!" 

Beneath  the  prairie  sod  he  sleeps, 
The  wild  flowers  o'er  him  wave, 

Few  friends  or  kindred  there  to  weep, 
His  is  a  Stranger's  Grave. 


OF  THE  WAR.  93' 


SONG  OF  THE  TEXAS  RANGERS. 

INSCRIHED     TO    MK3.      JOHN     H.     WHARTON. 


AIR — Yellow  Rose  of  Texas. 


I. 

The  morning  star  is  paling, 

The  camp  fires  flicker  low, 
Our  steeds  are  madly  neighing 

For  the  bugle  bids  us  go ; 
So  put  the  foot  in  stirrup, 

And  shake  the  bridle  free, 

For  to-day  the  Texas  Rangers 

Must  cross  the  Tennessee ! 

With  Wharton  for  our  leader, 
We'll  chase  the    dastard  foe, 
Till  our  horses  bathe  their  fetlocks 
In  the  deep  blue  Ohio. 

II. 

Our  men  come  from  the  prairies 

Rolling  broad,  and  proud,  and  free, 

From  the  high  and  craggy  mountains, 
To  the  murmuring  Mexic  sea ; 

And  their  hearts  are   open  as  their  plains, 
Their  thoughts  are  proudly  brave 

S* 


94  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

As  the  bold  cliff's  of  the  San  Bernard, 
Or  the  Gulf's  resistless  wave. 
Then  quick  into  the  saddle, 
And  shake  the  bridle  free, 
To-day  with  gallant  Wharton, 
We  cross  the  Tennessee. 


in. 

'Tis  joy  to  be  a  Eanger  ; 

To  fight  for  dear  Southland  ; 
'Tis  joy  to  follow  Wharton, 

With  his  gallant,  trusty  band  ; 
'Tis  joy  to  see  our  Harrison 

Plunge,   like  a  meteor  bright, 
Into  the  thickest  of   the  fray, 
And  strike   with  deadly  might. 

Oh !  who  would  not  be  a  Ranger, 

And  follow  Wharton's  cry, 
To  battle   for  their  country — 
And  if  it  need  be — die ! 


IV. 

Up  with  the  crimson  battle-flag ! 

Let  the  blue  pennon  fly ! 
Our  steeds  are  stamping  proudly, 

They  hear  the  battle-cry. 
The  thundering  bomb,  the  bugle's  call, 

Proclaim  the  foe  is  near, 
We  strike  for  God  and  native  land, 

And  all  we  hold  most  dear. 


•     OF    THE     WAR.  95 

Then  spring  into  the  saddle, 
And  shake  the  bridle  free — 

For  "Wharton  leads   thro'  fire  and  blood, 
For  Home  and  Victory ! 


THE  FLAG  OF  THE  LONE  STAR. 

BY     TENELLA. 

Hurrah  for  the  Lone  Star ! 

Up,  up  to  the  mast, 
With  the  honored  old  bunting, 

And  nail  it  there  fast. 
The  ship  is  in  danger, 

And  Texans  will  fight, 
'Neath  the  flag  of  the  Lone  Star, 

For  God  and  their  right. 

Shall  we  who  have  conquered 

Our  freedom  so  late, 
Turn  traitors,  and  yield 

Our  rights  as  a  State? 
No  !    No  !   we  will  battle 

With  head,   heart  and  hand, 
And  the  shades  of  our  Fathers 

Around  us  shall  stand. 

The  Alamo  heroes 

Shall  wake  from  their  sleep, 


96  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Eound  the  Lone  Star  of  Texas 

A  vigil  to  keep. 
Oh  let  them  not  find  us  ' 

Unworthy   to   guard, 
That  freedom  for   which 

They  struggled  so  hard. 

The  Star  Spangled  Banner 

Shall  never  more  wave 
O'er  the  heads  of  the  Texans, 

Determined  as  brave. 
At  first,  when  beneath  it 

Our  rights  were  denied, 
We  reverently  furled  it 

And  laid  it  aside. 

But  nowr,  with  a  yell 

Of  defiance  and  hate, 
We'll   tear  down  the  flag 

We  honored   so  late. 
'Tis  stamped  by   "The  Beast" 

With  indelible   shame, 
And  the  blood  of  a  Texan 

Grows  hot  at  its  name. 

Then  up  with  the  "Lone  Star," 
We'll  stand  with  our  Hood, 

By  Davis  and   Lee, 

As  we  often  have  stood. 

The  ship  is  in   danger, 
And   Texans  will  fight 

'Neath  the  flag  of  the  "  Lone  Star,' 
For  God,   and   their  right. 


OF    THE     WAR.  97 


THERE'S  LIFE   IN  THE  OLD   LAND  YET. 

BY    JAMES    R.    RANDALL. 

By  blue  Patapsco's  billowy  dash, 

The  tyrant's  war-shout  comes, 
Along  with  the  cymbal's  fitful  clash, 

And  the  roll   of   his  sullen  drums. 
We  hear  it !   we  heed  it,  with  vengeful  thrills, 

And  we  shall  not  forgive  or  forget — 
There's  faith  in  the  streams,  there's  hope  in  the  hills— 

"There's  life  in  the   Old  Land  yet!" 

Minions  !  we  sleep,  but  we  are  not  dead ; 

We  are  crushed,  we  are  scourged  we  are  scarred ; 
We  crouch — 'tis  to  welcome  the  triumph-tread 

Of   the   peerless    Beauregard ! 
Then  woe   to  your  vile,   polluting  horde, 

When  the  Southern  braves  are  met, 
There's  faith  in  the   victor's  stainless  sword — 

"There's  life   in  the   Old  Land  yet!" 

Bigots !    ye  quell  not  the  valiant  mind 

With  the   clank   of   an  iron  chain ; 
The  Spirit  of   Freedom  sings  in  the   wind, 

O'er  Merryman,   Thomas,  and  Kane ! 
And  we,  though  we  smite  not,  are  not  thralls — • 

We  are  piling  a  gory  debt, 


98  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

E'en   down  by  McHenry's  dungeon  walls, 
"There's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet!" 

Our  women  have  hung  their  harps  away, 

And  they  scowl   on  your  brutal   bands, 
While  the  nimble  poignard  dares  the  day 

In  their  dear,   defiant  hands; 
They  will  strip  their  tresses  to  string  our  bows, 

Ere  the  Northern  sun  is  set, 
There's  faith  in  their  unavenged  woes — 

"There's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet!" 

There's  life,  though  it  throbbeth  in  silent  veins; 

'Tis  vocal,  without  noise ; 
It  gushed  o'er  Manassas'   gory  plains 

In   the  blood  of   the  Maryland  boys ! 
That  blood  shall  cry  aloud,   and  rise 

With  an  everlasting  threat, 
By  the  death  of  the  brave  ! — by  the  God  in  the  skies  !- 

"There's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet!" 


OF    THE     WAR. 


ALL  QUIET  ALONG  THE  POTOMAC  TO-NIGHT. 

The  authorship  of  this  poem  has  been  disputed  iviili  us}  but  we  have 
evejy  reason  to  believe  that  it  was  icritten  by  Lamar  Fontaine^ 
Second  Virginia  Cavalry 

"All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night," 

Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat  to  and  fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 
'Tis  nothing — a  private  or  two  now  and  then, 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle ; 
Not  an  officer  lost — only  one  of  the  men — 

Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death  rattle. 

"All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night," 

"Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming, 
Their  tents  in   the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 

Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fires  are  gleaming. 
A  tremulous  sigh,  as  the  gentle  night-wind 

Through  the  forest  leaves  slowly  is  creeping, 
While  the  stars  up  aboye,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 

Keep  guard — for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There  is  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread, 
As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 

And  thinks  of  the  two  on  the  low  trundle-bed, 
Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 


100  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

His  musket  falls  slack — his  face,   dark  and  grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  his  children  asleep — 

For  their  mother,  may    Heaven  defend  her  ! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  as  brightly  as  then, 

Th'at  night,  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips,  and  when  low  murmured  vows, 

Were  pledged  to  be   ever  unbroken. 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are   welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun   close   up   to  its  place, 

As  if  to  keep  down  the   heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree, 

The  footstep   is  lagging   and  weary, 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Towards  the  shades   of   the   forest  so  dreary. 
Hark !  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the  leaves  ? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing? 
It  looked   like  a  rifle — ha !    Mary,  good-bye ! 

And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  splashing  ! 

"  All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night," 
No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river  ; 

While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead — • 
The  picket's  off  duty  forever ! 

1861. 


OF    THE     WAR. 

FAST-DAY,   NOVEMBER,    1861. 

BY    MISS    R.    POWELL,    OF    VIRGINIA. 

Hark !    to  the   silvery  chiming, 

That  stirs   the  quiet  air, 
Calling  with  solemn  summons 

A  nation   unto  prayer. 

And  now  from  every  dwelling 

Within  •  our   Southern  land, 
The  people  come,  with  humble  hearts, 

Before  their  God  to  stand. 

Virginia's  sons  and   daughters 

Bow  low  before   His  shrine, 
And   Carolina's  maidens 

Beseech  His  aid  divine. 

While  on  the   Gulfs  fair  sunny  shore, 
Where  the   sparkling  waters  play, 

All  with  united  voice  implore 
God's  benison  to-day. 

We  plead  for  all  that  Thou  hast  made 
To  human  hearts  most  dear, 

For  home,  for  life,   for  liberty, 
Lord,   our  petitions  hear  ! 

Be  Thou  to  us  as  Thou  hast  been — 
Our  sword,  our  strength,  our  shield, 


102  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Grant  us   Thy  counsel  in  the  camp, 
Thy  presence  in  the  field. 

Hear  us,   0   Lord,   for  those  who  go 

Forth  at  their  country's  call, 
To  fight  in   our  defense,  perchance 

In   our  defense  to  fall. 

Strengthen  each  hand,   and  nerve  each  heart, 

And  for  our  Savior's  sake, 
Into  Thy  heaven   of  joy  and  peace, 

Each  parting  spirit  take. 

"What  though  our  enemies  declare 
Their  boasted  power  and  sway, 

We  know  the   God  who  reigns  on  high 
Is  mightier  far  than  they. 

Stretch  forth  Thine  hand  to  aid  us,  Lord, 

Do  Thou  our  prayers  receive  ; 
Hear  Thou  in  heaven,   Thy  dwelling-place, 

And  wrhen   Thou  hearest,   forgive. 

And  when  at  last  the  strife  is  o'er, 

Wnen   all  our  work  is  done, 
And  by  Thy  blessing  on  our  arms, 

The  victory  has  been  won, 

Grant  us  with  steadfast  hearts  to  tread 
The  paths  Thy  saints  have  trod, 

And  be  throughout  all  future  time 
A  nation   serving  God. 


OF    THE     WAR.  103 


THE   WAR-CHRISTIAN'S   THANKSGIVING. 

RESPECTFULLY     DEDICATED      TO     THK     WAR-CLKRGY      OP     THE      UNITED     STATES, 
BISHOPS,    PRIESTS,    AND    DEACONS. 


BY   S.    T.   WALLACR. 


Cursed  be  he  that  dojth  the  work  of  the  Lord  negligently,  and  cursed  be  he 
that  keepe:h  back  his  sword  from  blood. — Jeremiah  48  :   10. 


0  God  of  battles  !    once  again, 
With  banner,   trump,   and   drum, 

And  garments  in   Thy  wine-press  dyed, 
To  give  Thee  thanks,   we  come  ! 

No  goats  or  bullocks,  garlanded, 

Unto  thine  altars  go — 
With  brothers'   blood,   by  brothers  shed, 

Our  glad  libations   flow. 

From  pest-house  and  from  dungeon  foul 
Where,   maimed  and  torn,   they  die  ; 

From  gory  trench  and  charnel-house, 
Where,  heap  on  heap,  they  lie  ; 

In  every  groan  that  yields  a  soul, 
Each  shriek  a  heart  that  rends — 

With  every   breath  of  tainted  air — - 
Our  homage,   Lord,   ascends. 


104  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

We  thank  thee  for  the  sabre's  gash, 

The  cannon's  havoc  wild, 
We   bless  Thee  for  the  widow's  tears, 

The  want  that  starves  her  child. 

We  give  Thee  praise,   that  Thou  hast  lit 
The  torch  and  fanned  the  flame  ; 

That  lust  and  rapine  hunt  their  prey, 
Kind  Father  !    in  Thy  name  ; 

That,  for  the  songs  of  idle  joy 

False  angels  sang  of  yore, 
Thou  sendest  War  on  Earth,   111  Will 

To  Men,  forevermore. 

We  know  that  wisdom,   truth,   and  right, 

To  us  and  ours  are  given — 
.  That  Thou  hast  clothed  us  with  Thy  wrath, 
To  do  the  work  of  Heaven. 

We  know  that  plains  and  cities  waste 

Are  pleasant  in  Thine  eyes ; 
Thou  lov'st  a  hearthstone  desolate, 

Thou  lov'st  a  mourner's  cries. 

Let  not  our  weakness  fall  below 

The  measure  of  Thy  will, 
And  while  the  press  hath  wine  to  bleed, 

Oh  !    tread  it  with  us  still  ! 

Teach  us  to  hate — as  Jesus  taught 
Fond  fools,  of  yore,  to  love — 


OF    THE     WAR.  105 

Grant  us  Thy  vengeance  as  our  own, 
Thy  Pity,   hide  above. 

Teach  us  to  turn,   with  reeking  hands, 

The  pages  of   Thy  word, 
And  hail  the  blessed  curses  there, 

On  them  that  sheathe  the   sword. 

Where'er  we  tread,   may  deserts  spring, 

Till  none   are   left  to  slay  ; 
And  when  the  last  red  drop  is  shed, 

We'll  kneel  again — and  pray  ! 


FOIIT  WARREN. 


CHRISTMAS  CAROL,   FOR   1862. 

From    "  Beeclienbrook,"    a    Poem    of    the     War. 
BY   MRS.    M.    J.    PRESTON,    OF    VIRGINIA. 

'Tis  Christmas,  the  season  of  mirth  and  of  cheer, 
The  happiest  holiday  knowrn  to  the  year, 
The  one  that  we  oftenest  love  to  recall — 
Most  ancient,  most  sacred,  and  dearest  of  all ! 
Turn  the  records  of  memory  over  and  see, 
What  days  of  your  childhood  were   fullest  of  glee — 
What  scenes  are  remembered  as  brightest  with  joy, 
For  the  old  and  the  young — for  the  maiden  and  boy — 
When  home  with  its  festive  and  innocent  mirth, 


106  S  0  U  THE  K  N    P  0  EM  S 

Seemed  the  sweetest  and  sunniest  spot  upon  earth, 
And  the  chimes  of  your  heart  most  responsively  rung, 
To  the  song  that  the  angels  at  Bethlehem  sung; 
Be  sure  that  these  white-letter  days  will  be  drawn, — 
Now  is  it  not  so? — from  your  Christmasses  gone. 

How  saddening  the  change  is  !     The  season's  the  same, 
And  yet  it  is  Christmas  in  nothing  but  name  : 
No  merry  expression  we  utter  to-day — 
How  can  we,  with  hearts  that  refuse  to  be  gay  ? 
We  look  back  a  twelvemonth  on  many  a  brow 
That   graced   the   home    hearthstone  —  and  where   are 

they  now  ! 

We  think  of  the  darling  ones  clustering  there, 
But  we  see  thro'  our  tears,  an  untenanted  chair ; 
We  wait  for  a  footstep — we  wait,  but  in  vain — 
It  will  never  return  from  the  battle  again  : 
The  dear  face  is  hidden   cold  under  the   clay — 
His  Christmas  is  kept  with  the  angels  to-day  ! 
Thank   God  !    there  is  joy  in  the  sorrow  for  all — 
He  fell — but  it  surely  was   blessed  to  fall ; 
For  never  shall  murmur  be  heard  from  the  mouth 
Of  mother  or  wTife  thro'   our  beautiful   South, 
Or  sister  or  maiden   yield  grudging  her  part, 
Tho'    the   price   that   she   pays,   must  be    coined   from 

her  heart ! 

We   drop  the  close   curtains — we  stir  up  the  fire, 
And  pile   up   the  blazing  hearth   higher  and.  higher ; 
We  wheel   up   our   chair,  and  with   friends   and   good 
cheer, 


OF    THE     WAR.  107 

We  try  to  shut  from  us  all  visions  of  fear. 

But  the  spectre  will  come — thro'  the  warmth  and  the 

light, 

The  camp  gleams  before   us,   all   shrouded  in  white  ; 
We  tread  the  soft  carpet,   and  lo  !    there's  the  sound 
Of  the  half-frozen  sentinel  pacing  his  round. 
Come  hither,   my  pretty  musician, — we  say, 
Come   chase  us  this  gloomy   oppression   away, 
Her  hand  o'er  the  instrument   gently  she  flings, 
And  this  is  the  song  of  the   Snow  that  she  sings  : 

I. 

Halt !    the  march  is   over  ; 

Day  is  almost  done  ; 
Loose  the  cumbrous  knapsack, 

Drop  the  heavy  gun  : 
Chilled,  and  worn,  and  weary, 

Wander  to  and  fro, 
Seeking  wood  to  kindle 

Fires  amidst  the  snow. 


Hi 

Eoiind  the  camp-blaze  gather, 

Heed  not  sleet  nor  cold  ; 
Ye  are   Spartan  soldiers, 

Strong,   and  brave,   and  bold. 
Never  Xerxian  army 

Yet  subdued  a  foe, 
Who  but  asked  a  blanket 

On  a  bed  of  snow  ! 


108  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

III. 

Shivering  midst  the  darkness, 

Christian  men  are  found 
There   devoutly  kneeling 

On   the  frozen   ground  ; 
Pleading  for  their   country 

In  its  hour  of   woe, 
For  its  soldiers  marching 

Shoeless  through  the   snow  ! 

IV. 

Lost  in  heavy  slumbers, 

Free  from  toil  and  strife, 
Dreaming  of  their   dear   ones — 

Home,   and   child,   and  wife  ; 
Tentless  they   are  lying, 

While  the  fires  burn  low — 
Lying  in  their  blankets, 

Midst  December's  snow  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  109 


A    HCTURE. 

We  were  sitting   round  the   table 

Just  a  night   or  two  ago, 
In  the   little   cozy  parlor, 

With  the   lamp  light  burning  low  ; 
And  the  window   blinds  half  opened, 

For  the   summer  air  to  come, 
And  the  painted  curtain  waving 

Like  a  busy  pendulum. 
0  !    the   cushion   on  the  sofa, 

And  the  pictures   on   the  wall, 
And  the  gathering   of   comforts 

In  the   old  familiar  hall ; 
And  the  wagging  of  the  pointer, 

Lounging  idly  by  the   door, 
And  the  flitting  of  the  shadow 

From  the  ceiling  to  the  floor. 
0  !    they  wakened  in  my  spirits, 

Like  the  beautiful  in  Art, 
Such  a  busy,   busy  thinking, 

Such  a  dreaminess  of  heart, 
That  I  sat  amongst  the  shadows 

With  my  spirit  all  astray, 
Thinking   only — thinking   only 

Of  the  soldiers  far  away  ! 
And  the  tent  beneath  the  moonlight, 

Of  the  stirring  tattoo's  sound, 
7 


110  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

And  the  soldier  in  his  blanket —  • 

In  his  blanket  on   the  ground. 
Of  the  icy  winter  coming, 

Of  the  bleak,   bleak  winds  that  blow, 
And  the  soldier  in  his  blanket — 

In  his  blanket  on  the   snow  ! 
Then   I  linger  in  my  dreaming, 

In  my   dreaming  far  away, 
Till  the   spirit's  picture-painting 

Seemed  as  vivid  as  the  day  ; 
And  the  moonlight  faded   softly 

From  the  window  open  wide, 
And  the   ever  faithful  pointer 

Nestled   closer  at  my  side. 
And  I  know,  beneath  the   starlight, 

Tho'   the   chilly  frosts  may  fall, 
That  the  soldier  will  be   dreaming, 

Dreaming  often   of   us  all. 
So  I  give  my  spirit's  painting 

Just  the   breathing  of  a  sound, 
For  the  dreaming,   dreaming  soldier 

In  his  slumber  on  the  ground. 

Savannah  Morning  News. 


OF    THE     WAR.  Ill 


A   SOUTHERN   SCENE.— 1862. 

"Oh,   mammy,   have  you  heard  the  news? 

Thus  spake  a  Southern  child, 
As,   in  the  nurse's  aged  face, 
She  upward  glanced  and  smiled. 

"  What  news  you  mean,  my  little  one  ? 

It  must  be  mighty  fine, 
To  make  my   darling's  face   so  red, 
Her  sunny  blue   eyes  shine." 

"  Why,  Abram  Lincoln,  don't  you  know  ? 

The  Yankee  President, 
Whose  ugly  picture  once  we  saw, 
When  up  to  town  we  went, 

"  Why,  he  is  going  to  free  you  all, 
And  make  you  rich  and  grand, 
And  you'll  be  dressed  in  silk  and  gold, 
Like  the  proudest  in  the  land.' 

"  A  gilded  coach  shall  carry   you 

Whene'er  you  wish  to  ride, 
And,   mammy,   all  your  work  shall  be 
Forever  laid  aside." 

The  eager  speaker  paused  for  breath, 
And  then  the  old  nurse  said, 


112  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

While  closer  to  her  swarthy   cheek 
She  pressed   the   golden  head : 

"  My  little  missus,  stop   an'  res, 

You   's  talking  mighty  fas, 
Jes  look  up   dere  an'   tell  me  what 
You  see  in  yonder  glass  ? 

11  You  see  ole  mammy's  wrinkled  face, 

As  black  as  any   coal, 
An'   underneath  her   handkerchief 
Whole  heaps  of  knotty  wool. 

"  My  darlin's  face  is  red  and  white, 

Her  skin  is  sof  and  fine, 

And  on  her  putty  little  head 

De  yaller  ringlets  shine. 

"  My  chile,  who  made  dis  difference 

'Twixt  mammy  and  twixt  you  ? 
You  reads  it  in  de   dear  Lord's  book, 
An'  you  kin   tell  me   true. 

"  De  dear  Lord  said,  it  must^e  so, 

An'   honey,   I,   for  one, 
Wid  tankful  heart  will   always  say, 
1  His  holy  will  be  done.' 

"  I  tanks  Mass  Linkum  all   de  same, 

But  when   I  wrants  for  free, 
I'll  ask   de   Lord  ob   glory, 

Not  poor  buckra  man,   like  he. 


OF    THE     WAR.  113 

"  And  as  for  gilded  carriages, 

Deys  berry  fine  to  see, 
But  massa's  coach  what  carries  him 
Is  good  enough  for  me. 

"  An'  honey,  when  your  mammy  wants 

To  change  her  homespun  dress, 
She'll  pray,   like   dear  old  missus, 
To  be  clothed  with  righteousness. 

11  My  work's  been   done  dis  many  a  day, 

An'   now  I  takes  my   ease ; 

A  waiten  for  de  Master's  call, 

Jes  when  de  Master  please. 

"  An'  when  at  last  de  time  done  come, 

An'  poor  ole  mammy   dies, 
Your  own  dear  mother's   sof   white  han' 
Shall  close  dese  tired  old  eyes. 

"  De  dear  Lord  Jesus  soon  will  take 

Ole  mammy  home  to   Him, 
An'  he  can  wash  my  guilty  soul 
From  eb'ry  stain    of   sin. 

"  An'   at  his  feet  I  shall  lie  down, 

Who   died  and  rose  for  me, 
An'   den,   an'   not  till  den,  my  chile, 
Your  mammy  shall  be  free. 


114  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

"  Come,   little  missus,   say   your  prayers, 

Let   ole  Mass  Linkum  'lone. 
De   debil  knows   who  b'longs  to  him 
An'  he'll   take  care    ob  his  own." 


SONG  OF  THE   FREEDMAN. 

[On  Orleans  street,  near  Adams,  yesterday  afternoon,  there  sat 
upon  the  curbstone  a  gray-haired  negro  man ;  his  face  was 
buried  in  his  hands;  tears  crept  through  his  toughened  fingers, 
and  his  groans  melted  the  heart  of  the  passers-by.  When 
questioned,  he  said  he  must  die  ;  that  he  had  no  home,  that 
he  was  sick ;  and  no  one  cared  for  him  now.  Listen  to  his 
story.  It  is  in  truthful  verse  by  A.  R.  WATSON  :] 


A  freedman  sat  on  a  pile  of  bricks, 

As  the  rain  was  pattering  down, 
His  shoes  were  worn  and  his  coat  was  torn, 

And  his  hat  was  without  a  crown. 
He  viewed  the  clouds  and  he  viewed  himself, 

And  he  shook  the  wet   from  his  head, 
A  tear  dimmed  his  eye  as  he  saw  go  by 

A  boy  with  a  loaf  of  bread. 
And  he  raised  his  voice  in  a  dolorous  tone, 

That  sounded  like  a  gong, 
While  the  rain  came  down  on  his  nappy  crown, 

And  sang  to  himself  this  song : 


OF    THE     WAR.  115 

De  wind  blows  cold,  but   I's  done  wid  toil, 

And  leff  de   cotton  patch ; 
I  guess  ole  massa  tink  he  count 

De  chickens  'fore  dey  hatch. 
I  totes  no  more  de  heaby  load, 

Nor  drives  ole  missus  round, 
I  wonder  who  dey's  gwine  to  get 

To  work   de  patch  ob  ground  ? 
Den   fling  away   de   rake    and  hoe, 

Dis  am  de  jubilee, 
De  rain  may  come,   de  wind  may  blow, 

But  bress  de   Lord  I's  free  ! 

But  I  tink  last  night  as  I  tried  to  sleep 

Upon   de   muddy   ground, 
While   de   rain   was   drippin'   on  my  head 

And  de  wind  was  whizzin'   round, 
I'd  like  to  hab  my  light'ood  fire, 

And  my   cabin  back   again, 
For   de  wedder's  gettin'   berry   cold 

Out  here  in  all   dis  rain  ; 
But  den  I's  done  wid  de  rake  and  hoe, 

Dis  am  de  jubilee, 
De  rain  may   come,   de  wind  may  blow, 

But  bress   de   Lord  I's  free ! 

I's  got  all  ragged  'bout  de  knees, 

My   shoes   is   worn-out  too, 
My  coat  so  ole  dat  from  each  sleeve 

De   elbow's  commin   froo. 
And   dere's  de   children   dat  once  played 

In  shirt-tail  bout  de  yard, 


116  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

I  cannot  buy  a  shirt  for  dem, 

De  time's  so  berry  hard. 
But  fling  away   de  rake  and  hoe, 

Dis  am  de  jubilee, 
De   rain  may   come,  de  wind   may  blow, 

But  bress  de  Lord  I's  free  ! 

De  udder  day  when  Pinky   died, 

I  tink   it  berry  good, 
Dat  de    dear  Lord  should  take  her  off 

Before   dis  cold  wind  blowed. 
But  den   'twas  hard  to   see  her  die — 

I  wish   she'd  not  been   born — • 
I's   'fraid  she  perished,   for   she  asked 

About  de  rice  and  corn. 
But  den  I's  done   wid  de  rake  and  hoe, 

Dis  am   de  jubilee, 
De  rain  may  come,   de  wind  may  blow, 

But  bress  de  Lord  I's  free  ! 

And  Dinah  sits  here   on   de  ground 

And  looks  so  thin   and  poor, 
She  cannot  sing  de  song  she   sung 

About  de   cabin   door. 
Her  poor   old  limbs  are   almost  bare, 

Her  cheek  bone's  comin   froo  ; 
I  almost  wish  de   Lord  would  come 

And  take  her  up   dere  too. 
But  den  she's  done  wid  de   rake   and  hoe, 

Dis  am  de  jubilee, 
De  rain  may  come,   de  wind  may  blow, 

But  bress  de  Lord  she's  free  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  H? 

I   dreamt  las'   night  ole  massa  corne 

And  took  us  home  wid  he, 
To  de    log  cabin   dat  we  lef 

When  first  dey  set  us  free  ; 
And  dere   I  built  de  light'ood  fire, 

And  Dinah  cook'd  de  yam, 
Dey  say   dat  dreams  are  sometimes  true, 

I  wonder  if  dis   one  am  ? 
But  den   I's  flung  away   de  hoe, 

To  hab  a  jubilee, 
De  rain  may   come,   de  wind  may  blow, 

But  bress  de  Lord  I's  free  ! 

ATLANTA,  GA. 


THE  UNRETURNING. 

The  swallow  leaves   the  ancient  eaves, 

As  in  the   days  agone  ; 
The  wheaten  fields  are  all   ablaze 
And  in  and  out  the   west  wind  plays, 
Amid  the  tasseled  corn. 

The  sun's  rays  light  as  warm  and  bright 

On  clover  fields  all  red ; 
The  wild  bird    wakes  his  simple  song 
As  joyfully,   the   whole    day  long, 
As  if  he  were  not  dead  ! 


118  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

The  summer  skies,  with  softest  sighs, 

Their  rain  and  sunshine  send, 
And,  standing  in  the  farmhouse   door, 
I    see — dotting  the  landscape  o'er — 
The  flocks  he  used  to  tend. 

The  woodbine  grows — the  jasmine  blows — 

Beside   the   window-sill ; 
Their  soft  sweet  sigh  is  in  the  air, 
For  the  dear  hands  that  placed  them  there 
On  the  red  field  are  still. 

Around  the  wolds  the  summer  folds 
Her  wealth   of  golden  light, 
And,   past  the  willows'  silvery  gleam, 
I   catch  the  glimmering  of  the  stream 
And  lilies,  cool  and  white. 

But  oh !    one  shade  has  solemn  made 
The   sunshine  and  the  bloom, 
^        His  voice,   whose  sweet  and  gentle  words, 

Were  sweeter  than  the  song  of   birds, 
Is  silent  in  the  tomb. 

How  can  the  day,  so  bright  and  gay, 

Glare  round  the  farmhouse  door? 
When   all  the  quiet  ways  he  trod 
By  leafy  wood,  or  blooming  sod, 

Shall  know  him  nevermore  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  119 


ZOLLICOFFER. 

Killed  Battle  of  Somerset,  Ky.,   I9(h  Jan'y,   18G2. 
BY    II.    L.    FLASH. 

First  in  the  fight,  and  first  in  the  arms 
Of  the  white-winged  angels  of  glory, 

With  the  heart  of  the  South  at  the  feet  of  God, 
And  his  wounds  to  tell  the  story. 

For  the  blood  that  flowed  from  his  hero  heart, 
On  the  spot  where  he  nobly  perished, 

Was  drunk  by  the  earth  as  a  sacrament 
In  the  holy  cause  he  cherished  ! 

In  heaven  a  home  with  the  brave  and  blessed, 

And  for  his  soul's  sustaining, 
The  atoning  blood  of  his  Savior,  Christ, 

And  nothing  on  earth  remaining 

But  a  handful  of   dust  in  the  land  of  his  choice- 

A  name  in  song  and  story, 
And  fame  to  shout  with  immortal  voice, 

"  Dead  on  the  field  of  glwy  /" 


120  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


THE    BURIAL    OF    CAPT.   0.   JENNINGS  WISE. 

Killed  at  Roanoke  Island,  February  8th,  18G2. 
BY    ACCOMAC. 

Mournfully  the  bells  are  tolling, 
And  the  muffled  drums  are  rolling 
With  a  sad  and  dreamy  echo, 
Through  Richmond's  crowded  streets ; 
And  the  dead-march  slowly  pealing, 
On  the  solemn  air  now  stealing, 
Hushing  every  lightsome  feeling, 
Our  saddened  senses  greet ; 
And  a  look  of  settled  sorrow 
Is  on  every  face  we  meet. 

To  his  last,  long  home  they're  bearing 
One,  whose  many  deeds  of   daring, 
One,  whose  noble,  high-toned  spirit 
Has  endeared  him  to  us  all ; 
Now,  his  sleep  shall  know  no  waking, 
Now,  his  rest  shall  have  no  breaking, 
And  no  more,  amid  war's  thunders, 
Shall  his  soldiers  hear  his  call. 
He  has  laid  aside  his  armor, 
And  his  banner  is  his  pall ! 

But  his  deeds  will  never  slumber, 
For  we'll  ever  proudly  number 


OF    THE     WAR.  121 

Him  among  the  brave  who've  perished 
Struggling  for  our  liberty ; 
And  Virginia,  when  she's  weeping 
O'er  the  sons  that  now  are  sleeping 
On  her  bosom,  shall  forget  not 
That  he  died  to  set  her  free  ; 
And  graven  on  her  sacred  tablets 
Shall  his  name  forever  be  ! 


FORT    DONELSON  — THE    SIEGE,   FEB'Y,    1862. 

BY    MRS.    C.    A.    WARFIELD,    OF    KY. 

I  cannot  look  on  the  sunshine 

That  breaks  thro'  the  clouds  to-day, 
I  can  only  lie   in  the  shadow, 

And  close  my  eyes  and  pray  ; 
Pray,  with  my  pale  lips  moving, 

While  my  breath  comes  thick  and  short, 
For  that  band  of  beleaguered  heroes 

Shut  up  in  that  doomed  Fort. 

Constant  and  true,  yet  hopeless, 

Desperate  and  stern  and  brave, 
"With  the  black  flag  waving  o'er  them, 

Each  stands  by  his  yawning  grave  ; 
Their  foes  gather  thick  around  them, 

In  numbers  as  five  to  one, 


122  SOUTHERN   POEMS 

And  more  follow  fast  in   the   distance, 
As  motes  in  the  noonday  sun. 

The  strength  of  the  strong  man  faileth, 

He  panteth  for  needful  rest, 
He  is  changed  as  by  years  of  anguish, 

By  the  fever  in  his  breast. 
Fierce  and  grim  and  grizzly, 

As  wolves  on  the  Lapland  Avoid, 
They  gaze  on  their  spent  munition, 

And  the  fourth   day  nearly  told. 

Oh  !    God,   from  Thy  throne  in  heaven, 

Put  forth  Thy  saving  hand, 
Succor  them,   oh  !   my  Father, 

Our  death-devoted  band. 
It  is  not  in  human  wisdom, 

It  is  not  in  mortal   skill, 
To  stay  the  bolt  of  perdition — 

All  resteth  with  Thy  will. 

The  evening  is  closing  around  us — 

The   evening  cold  and  gray — 
We  hear  the  booming  cannon 

In  the  city  far  away. 
We  know  the  Fort  has  fallen, 

We  mourn  our  bitter  loss, 
Yet  we  glory  in  our  heroes — 

Our  martyrs  of  the  cross. 


OF    THE     WAR.  123 


THE   BATTLE   OF   HAMPTON   ROADS. 

BY    TEN ELL A. 

Now,  once  again,  let  Southern  hearts  unite  in  thank 
ful  praise 

To  the  mighty  God  of  battles,  mysterious  in  His  ways  ; 

For  He  hath  rent  the  cloudy  veil  which  late  con 
cealed  His  face, 

And  in  the  fiery  pillar's  light  revealed  His  wondrous 
grace. 

At  noon,  the  hated  Cumberland,  the  Congress  by  her 
side, 

Our  iron-clad  Virginia  most  scornfully  defied  ; 

Ere  night  the  waves  were  rolling  o'er  stem,  and  stern, 
and  mast, 

While  from  her  burning  consort  a  lurid  glare  was  cast ; 

And  silenced  were  the  batteries  that,  from  the  neigh- 
b'ring  shore, 

Rained  shot  and  shell  upon  her  with  hoarse  and  sullen 
roar. 

The  good  ship   Minnesota  lies  many  a  fathom  deep, 

And  'neath  the  silent  waters  three  hundred  foemen 
sleep, 

For,   ah  !    the  sunken  Merrimac,   Antaeus-like,   arose, 

And  re-baptized  "  Virginia,"  deals  death  unto  our  foes. 

They  boasted  that  the  serpent  lay  coiled  around  our 
hearts, 


124  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

But  from  its  iron   cradle   our  infant  navy  starts, 
And  at  one  grasp  has  strangled  the  base,  insidious  foe, 
Who,  with,  the  white  flag  flying,  dared  strike  a  coward's 

blow. 
Oh,  brethren  !    can  you  wonder,  while  'neath  this  brand 

he  burns, 
Upon   your  wives  and   children   his   dastard   arms   he 

turns  ? 

Nor  scorns  on  flying  women  to  pour  his  murd'i'ous  fire, 
And  vent  on  wailing  infants  his  baffled,  savage  ire  ! 
But,  Southerners,  take  courage  ;  sink  not  beneath  the 

rod  ; 
Eise,   buckle   on   your   armor,   and   put   your   trust   in 

God. 
What    though    your   homes    be    vacant,    or    worse,    in 

ashes  lie — 
"  Like   the   bird    unto    the   mountain,"   your    helpless 

women  fly  ? — 
Though  the  changing  tide  of  fortune  may  ebb  as  well 

as  flow, 
'Tis   the    hand   that   crowned  with  victory  that   deals 

the  chastening  blow. 
We    are   battling   for   our   freedom,   our   sacred   rights 

and  laws, 

And   the    God   that   gave   these   blessings   himself  be 
friends  our  cause. 

Yes,  like  a  treach'rous  serpent,  our  foe  around  us  coils, 
But,  though  he's  hydra-headed,  we  are  not  in  his  toils  ; 
Like  the  scorpion,  he  shall  perish  by  his  own  poisoned 

bite, 
If  undismayed  we  battle  for  God  and  for  our  right. 


OF    THE     WAR.  125 

Then,    maiden,    arm    your    lover  ;     oh  !     mother,    gird 

your  son  ; 

And,  wife,  cheer  on  your  husband,  till  liberty  is  won. 
Like  the  steed  in  strength  rejoicing,  the  eagle  free  of 

wing, 
O'er  ocean,  plain,  and  mountain,  our  banner  outward 

fling! 


THE    TURTLE. 

Csesar,  afloat  with  his  fortunes  ! 

^And  all  the  world  agog, 
Straining  its  eyes 
At  a  thing  that  lies 

In  the  water,  like  a  log  ! 
It's  a  weasel !    a  whale  ! 
I  see  it's  tail ; 

It's  a  porpoise  !    a  pollywog  ! 

Tarnation  !    it's  a  turtle  ! 

And  blast  my  bones  and  skin, 
My  hearties !    sink  her, 
Or  else  you'll  think  her 

A  regular  terror-pin  ! 

The  frigate  poured  a  broadside  ! 

The  bombs  they  whistled  well, 
But,  hit  old  Nick 
With  a  sugar  stick  ! 

It  didn't  " phase"  her  shell! 


126  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Piff,  from  the  creature's  larboard — 
And  dipping  along  the  water, 

A  bullett  hissed 

From  a  wreath  of  mist 
Into  a  doodle's  quarter  ! 

Raff,  from  the  creature's  starboard- 
Rip,  from  his  ugly  snorter, 

And  the  Congress,  and 

The  Cumberland 

Sunk,  and  nothing — shorter. 

Now  here's  to  you,    "Virginia," 
Arid  you  are  bound  to  win, 

By  your  rate  of  bobbing  round,    • 
And  your  way  of  pitchin  in ; 

For-  you  are  a  cross 

Of  the  old  sea-horse, 

And  a  regular  terror-pin  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  127 


ALBERT  SIDNEY  JOHNSTON. 

Killed  Battle  of  S/riloh,  April,   1862. 
BY   FLEMING   JAMES. 

'Mid  dim  and  solemn  forests,  in  the  dawning  chill 
and  gray, 

Over  dank,  unrustling  leaves,  or  through  the  stiff 
and  sodden  clay, 

"With  never  a  fife  or  bugle,  or  iftitter  of  rumbling 
drum, 

With  shivering  forms  and  solemn  souls  the  Southern 
soldiers  come  ; 

Their  long  lines  vanishing  in  mist  as  onward  they 
are  sweeping 

With  step  as  silent  as  the  dawn's  to  where  the  foe 
is  sleeping. 

Hark  !  a  challenge  !  "  Halt ! "  Th'  expected  shot — 
and  then  a  dozen  more, 

Like  pebbles  pattering  down  the  steep  the  avalanche 
before  ; 

And  then  a  rush,  and  then  a  yell,  and  then  a  blind 
ing  glare, 

And  then  a  crash  to  lift  the  feet,  resounding  every 
where  ! 

Now  vanish  chill  and  solemn  thoughts,  now  burns 
the  frenzied  blood  ! 


128  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

The  tottering  tents  toss  to   and  fro  upon  the  driving 

flood, 
And  the  camp-fires  flash  and  darken  fast  beneath  the 

masses'  tread — 
Now  smoke  behind  in  scattered  brands  'mid  wounded 

men  and  dead. 
And    forward    crowd    the    fugitives    in    panic -driven 

race  ; 

In  vain   in   bush,  ravine  and  brake  they  hunt  a  hid 
ing  place  ; 
For  still   that   long   line  onward  sweeps  unbroken  far 

and  near 
As  War  himself,  with  pinions  bowed,  were    screaming 

in  their  re^  ! 

But  far  beyond  the  panic's  reach  the  foe  is  forming 
fast — 

And  in  our  path  stands  rank  on  rank  of  long  bat 
talion's  massed. 

Now,  Southern  soldiers,  nerve  your  hearts  and  gather 
up  your  strength, 

The  time  of  trial  waited  for  is  come  to  you  at 
length  ! 

Remember  how  you  left  your  homes — that  cruel  part 
ing,  men, 

And  all  the  weary  months  of  toil  and  suffering  since 
then  ! 

Remember  now,  ye  refugees,  your  olden  homes  that  be 

By  Cumberland's  green  waters  or  the  crystal  Ten 
nessee — 

And  your  waiting  wives  and  sisters,  and  your  chil 
dren  at  their  play, 


OF    THE     WAR.  129 

Or    your    homeless,    helpless    wanderers — how    many  ! 

who  can  say  ? 
Two  chimneys  tall  and  a  crumbling  wall   are   all  the 

home  I  have, 
And   all   I  love  are  on  the  world  or  sheltered  in  the 

grave  ! 
If  ever  you  have  thought  to  fight  because   our  cause 

is  just, 
And  in  the  god  of  battles,  boys,  have  put  the  freeman's 

trust ; 
And    if   ever  you  have  dreamed   of   home  and  prayed 

to  set  it  free, 

Oh  !  pray  to-day,  and  fight  to-day  for  Southern  liberty ; 
For  Southern  rights  and  Southern  homes,  and  South 
ern  liberty  ! 

Now  a  hundred  pieces  open    and   their  shrieking  mis 
siles  pour, 
And  full  ten    thousand    muskets    flash    and   mingle  in 

the  roar, 
Till    the    cannon's  boom  is    swallowed   in    the   din  of 

musketry, 
As  the  booming  of  the  ocean  when  the  thunders  crash 

on  high. 
But  momently  our  laboring  lines  are  charging  o'er  the 

field, 
And    forcing    back    the    stubborn    ranks    which    only 

inches  yield  ; 
For  at  every  fence  they  rally  and  oppose  our  surging 

flood, 
Till  their  dead  lie  heaped  before  us  wherever  they  have 

stood. 


130  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Here  a  Southern   regiment   is   matched   against  a  full 

brigade, 

Not  a  hundred  yards  apart  in  open  field  arrayed — 
And  a  brook  half-way  between  them  through  %  copse 

of  willows  glides, 
There's  not  a  rock,  fence,  log    or  -  tree  to  shelter  ours 

besides. 
But    stubbornly,    undauntedly,    with    ne'er    a  cheer  or 

shout — 
With  hands   too   busy   for   their   lips   they  deal  their 

vollies  out ! 
Oh  !  unavailing  courage  !      How   the   bullets  beat  you 

down  ! 
I  fear,  ye  gallant  Southrons,  ye   can  never  hold  your 

own ! 
But  the  Colonel   passes   down   the  lines,  in  clear  and 

steady  voice 
He  tells :    "  The    order's   come    at   last ;    'tis  bayonets, 

my  boys ! " 
And   their   eyes   exchange   their   lightnings   and  their 

hearts  exchange  a  thrill — 

Then  the   word — a   clank    of  muskets — and   they  for 
ward  with  a  will. 

Ah  !  woe  betide  the  enemy  who  tarries  in  their  path, 
Death  bends  him  to  his  -iron  scythe   to   cut   a  bloody 

swath ! 

Again  the  battle  gathers  strength  on  yonder  wooded 

hill, 
Behind  whose  awful  batteries  fresh  ranks  are  forming 

still  ; 


OF    THE     WAR.  131 

A    reeking    vail    of   undergrowth,    divides    the    hostile 

lines, 
But  lurid  through  'its  tangled  web  the  vivid  lightning 

shines  ! 
And  so  appalling  death  appears  behind  that  dreadful 

pall— 

The  stoutest  spirit  hesitates  and  flinches  from  his  call. 
Now  who  will  pierce  that  curtain  dire   and  meet  the 

battle's  brunt, 
Before  their  armies  gather  there  and  burst  upon  our 

front  ? 

Again  the  stern  portentous  cry  of  bayonets  is  heard, 
But  not  again  the  serried  line  springs  forward  at  the 

word  ; 
Behind  the  trees  as  skirmishers  the  cowering  soldiers 

hide, 
And  from  afar  the  harmless  trade  of  musket  balls  is 

plied. 
In  vain,  in  vain  their  leaders  shout,  they  cannot  make 

them  stir, 
But  perish  singly  in  the  lead  with  scarce  a  follower! 

But  hark !  a  sound  of  hoofs  behind,  a  clang  of  sabres 

loud! 

I  see  a  squad  of  mighty  men  go  by  me  like  a  cloud  ! 
As  the  immortals  rode  to  war  when  Hector  fought  for 

Troy, 
These   ride  as   if   immortals   too,   inspired   with   awful 

j°y- 

Before  them  rides  their   leader   with  a  form  that  fills 
the  air, 


132  SOUTHERN   POEMS 

So  does  his  bearing  fill  their  eyes  as  if  a  god  were 
there  !  * 

Look  how  he  rides  to  battle  with  a  glory  on  his  brow, 

As  if  prophetic  victory  held  her  laurels  o'er  it  now. 

They  are  riding  to  the  rescue  ;  it  is  Johnston  rides 
before  ! 

God  grant  they  be  in  time  to  turn  the  battle's  tide 
once  more. 

I  hear  their  shoutings  in  the  din,  I  hear  the  cries  to 
"form," 

I  see  a  stiffening  battle  line  take  shape  within  the 
swarm ; 

And  again  the  rank  advances  with  an  impetus  of 
wrath, 

Their  chieftain's  rage  in  every  heart  impels  them  on 
their  path  ! 

A  thousand  rifles  level' d  low,  but  every  rifle  dumb, 

The  beating  of  a  thousand  feet  upon  a  monster  drum, 

A  surging  of  the  war-cloud  as  they  disappear  be 
neath, 

A  sickening  of  my  spirit  and  a  gasping  of  my  breath ; 

Eedoubled  din — a  lull — a  cheer  ;  I  would  the  smoke 
wrould  go  ! 

Oh  !  see  our  swooping  battle-flags  !  Oh  !  see  the  flee 
ing  foe  ! 

Now  glory  to  those  gallant  men  ;  and,  Father,  to  thy 
hand, 

To-morrow  shall  thy  praises  ring  throughout  our 
stricken  land  ! 

But  where  is  he  who  rallied  them  ?  I  miss  his  charger 
there  ; 


OF    THE     WAR.  133 

I  see  him  now  midst  yonder   three  whose  saddles  all 

are  bare ; 
And    two    men    staggering    with    a   load    this    side    of 

them   I   see  ; 

Oh !   who  is  it  they  carry  in  their  arms  so  tenderly  ? 
They    lay    him   gently    on    the    leaves.       Ah  !    well    I 

know  him  now  ; 
I   know    that    lordly    figure    and   that   grand    imperial 

brow  ! 
'Tis  he,  but,  oh  !    how  prostrate  that  form  which  filled 

the  air, 
And  his    the  pallid    face  ;     but  look,  the  glory  still  is 

there  ! 

Oh  !    ye    daughters    of   Kentucky,  ere    your  peans  are 

begun, 
Your   lips    shall    falter   when   they   tell    how    Shiloh's 

fight  was  won  ! 
Oh !    ye    "  hunters   of  Kentucky,"   how  your   hunting 

grounds  are  poor, 
For  the  noblest  of  the  "hunters  of  Kentucky"  hunts 

no  more  ! 
And  oh  !    country,  whose  reproaches  made  him  weary 

of  his  life, 
But  never  made  him  traitor  in  that  hour  with  traitors 

rife, 
Thou  shalt  lift  thy  voice  repentant  but  in  unavailing 

praise, 
The    stony    ear   shall    never    hear    in   his   last    resting 

place  ! 

8 


134  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

And  thy  daughters'  hands  shall  weave   the  crown   of 

laurels,  but  in    vain, 
His  marble  brows  shall  never  feel,  nor  pulse  beat  quick 

again. 
Oh  !    South,  be  sure  a  heart  so  pure  had  never  loved 

so  well 
A  country  which-  had  wronged  him  sore,  he  pardoned 

ere  he  fell ! 


LINES    WKITTEN    DURING     THESE     GLOOMY 
TIMES— TO    HIM   WHO   DESPAIRS. 

[Spoken  at  the  Richmond  "Varieties,"  by   Mr.  Ogden,    "Wednes 
day    night,    May    7th,   1862.] 

BY    PROF.    J.    H.    HEWITT. 

Tho'  our  roofs   be  on   fire,  tho'   our   rivers  run  blood, 
Tho'    their   flag  's   on   the    hill,    on    the   plain,    on  the 

flood, 

Tho'  their  bayonets  bristle  and  shouts  rend  the  air, 
Faint  heart,  do  not  utter  the  cry  of   despair  !    ' 

The  red  morn  looks  down  on  the  field  of  the  slain, 
The  gaunt  vulture  soars  over  the  desolate  plain  ; 
By  the  loved  ones  that  mantled  in  glory  lie  there, 
Arouse  from  thy  stupor  and  never  despair  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  .       135 

We  have  mountains  that  lift  their  grey  peaks   to  the 

skies, 

We  have  rifles  whose  crack  to  the  war-yell  replies, 
We  have  sinewy  arms,  we  have  souls,  that  will    dare, 
While   these    are    our   safe-guards,   why,   doubters,  de 
spair  ? 

The  great  God  is  just  and  he  blesses  the  right, 
He  makes  the  weak  rise  like  a  giant  in  might ; 
When  he  strikes   for   his   home   and   the   tender   ones 

there, 
There's  hope  in  each  blow — there  is  shame  in  despair  ! 

Then,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  push  on  with  a  tread 
That  will   shake   the   loose   earth  that  is   heaped  o'er 

the  dead ; 
Bear  the  torch  and  the  sword  to   the  proud   tyrant's 

lair, 
Let  the  wild  battle-shout  drown  the  wail  of  despair  ! 

Despair  ?  while  the  old  man  can  flourish  his  staff ; 
Despair  ?  while  the  boy  at  the  invader  can  laugh  ; 
Despair  ?  while  our  daughters  and  wives  kneel  in 

prayer, 
And  our  mothers  cry  out,  Don't  despair  !  don't  despair ! 

Go  preach  to  the  rock   on  the  lone  ocean  shore, 

And  tell  it  to  battle  the  billows  no  more  ; 

While  there's  life,  there  is  hope  ;    for  the  death-blow 

prepare, 
It  is  glorious  to  battle — 'tis  base  to  despair  ! 


136  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


"AWAY   WITH   THE   DASTARDS  WHO  WHINE 
OF   DEFEAT." 

BY    PAUL    II      IIAYNE,    OF    SOUTH    CAROLINA. 

Away  with  the   dastards  who  whine  of   defeat, 

And  hint  that  the  day   of   destruction   draws  near, 

Who   counsel   "  submission,"   or  whisper  "  retreat," 
With  the  traitor's  mistrust  and  the  renegade's  fear. 

What !    doff  the   strong  armor,  and  yield  us  as  slaves 
To  lust  and  to   robbery,   banded  with  might, 

While  the  standard  that  symbols  our  liberty  waves, 
Still  flaming  and  fair  in  the  front  of  the  fight? 

By  the  souls  of  our  fathers  !    I  hold  them  accurst, 
The   caitiffs  who  falter  and  flee  from  the  strife,- 

Who   would    slake    at    Dishonor's    foul   cess-pool    the 

thirst 
Of  a  passion — the  meanest  and  basest — for  life  ! 

Go  !    crouch  in  the  forest !    Go  !    hide  'neath  the  rock  ! 

Slink,  pallid  and  scared,  into  mountain  and  den  ; 
We  have  maidens  to  fill  your  lost  ranks  in  the   field 

Of   death  and  of   conflict — most  gallant  of  men  ! 

The   soul   of  the  brave  saint  of  Orleans  is  here, 
It  thrills  in  the  voices,  it  burns  on  the  cheek 


OF    THE     WAR.  137 

Of  women  who  heed  not  the  wail  of  despair, 

And  scorn  the  false  words  which  the  craven  would 
speak. 

"  Submission,"  ah  !    yes  !    we'll  submit  when  the  sod, 
Lies  blackened  and  bare  on  the  tombs  of  our  race, 

And  "retreat"  when  the  call  of  our  merciful  God, 
Shall  bid  us  disband  in  His  kingdom  of  grace  ! 

CHARLESTON,  May  10,  1862. 


STEADY   AND   READY. 

Steady,  when  fortune's  dark  shadows  surround  us, 

Calm,  when  the  winds   of  adversity  blow  ; 
Brave,  when  the  world's  hollow  voice  would  confound 
us, 

Strong,  though  its  wild  waves  tumultuously  flow  ; 
Steady  in  tempest,  in  strife  and   commotion, 

Hope  as  our  anchor  to  stem  the  rude  sea, 
Fierce  though   the   billows,  and  wrathful  the   ocean, 

Steady  and  ready  our  maxim  shall  be. 

Eeady,  when  sinister  foes  would  oppose  us,. 

Dauntless  in  conflict  to  do  and  to  dare  ; 
Ready  to  echo  the  voices  which  bless  us 

When  shielding  our  offspring  from  want  and  despair  ; 
Ready — to  calm  the  low  wailing  of   sorrow, 

To  battle  with  wrong  till  the    enemy  flee  ; 


138  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Hoping  and  trusting  to  win  the  bright  morrow, 
Steady  and  ready  our  maxim  shall  be. 

Steady — while  dark  streams  around  us  are  flowing, 

Steady — the  rocks  and  the  quicksands  to  shun ; 
Firmer  in  faith  and  full-heartedness  growing, 

Till  the  conflict  is  over,  the  victory  won. 
Glimpses  of  sunshine  steal  o'er  the  dark  river, 

Star-light  and  moon-light  illumine  the  sea ; 
Hail  to  the  symbol  both  now  and  forever, 

Steady  and  ready  our  maxim  shall  be. 


OF    THE     WAR.  139 


PRAYER. 

[These  verses  were  written  by  a  deaf  and  dumb  girl  of  Savannah, 
Ga.,  on  the  occasion  of  a  fast-day.] 

Before  Thy  throne,  0  God  ! 
Upon  this  blood-wet  sod, 

We  bend  the  knee  : 
And  to  the  darkened  skies 
We  lift  imploring  eyes, 

We  cry  to  Thee. 

The  clouds  of  gloom  untold 
Have  deepened  fold  on  fold, 

By  Thy  command  ; 
And  war's  red  banner  waves, 
Still  o'er  the  bloody  graves, 

That  fill  the  land. 

Our  trampled  harvest  field, 
No  more  its  bounty  yields — 

Of  corn  and  wine  ; 
Thy  suffering  children  see, 
They  crave  no  friends  but  Thee, 

No  help  but  Thine. 

Behold  how  few  we  stand, 
To  guard  our  native  land 
From  shame  and  wrong ; 


140  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

How  weak  without  Thine  aid  ! 
Yet  by  Thy  hand  arrayed, 
We  shall  be  strong. 

Hark  !    through  the  vernal  air 
The  foemen's  shout  we  hear — 

They  come  !  they  come  ! 
From  valley,  hill,  and  coast 
They  throng,  a  countless  host, 

Around  our  homes. 

Q  God  !    save  us  from  harm  1 
Stretch  forth  Thy  mighty  arm, 

Thy  glittering  spear  ! 
We  fight  beneath  Thy  shield, 
A  We  cannot  fear  nor  yield 

For  Thou  art  near. 

And  Thou,   0  Christ,  so  fair, 
Who  did'st  our  sorrows  bear, 

Prince   of   Peace  ! 
Breathe  out  Thy  love  divine, 
Through  all  this  world  of   Thine, 

And  war  shall  cease  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  141 


A   SUNDAY   REVERIE. 

BY    JAMES    K.    RANDALL. 

Beyond   my    dingy    window  pane, 

This   beaming    Sunday   morn, 
I   watch,   the   red-breast    on    the   vane, 

And   the    ravens   robbing  corn ; 
Hard   by,    the    Alabama   boils 

Its   sallow    flood    along, 
With  drift-wood "  full  and  forest  spoils 

A   melancholy   throng] 

The    rich   horizon   melts    away 

To    an    illumined    arch, 
"With    Summer    glories    all  astray 

Upon   the   brows   of  March  ; 
The   birds,   inebriate   with    glees, 

Seem   happiest   when   they    sing, 
Filling   the    aromatic   trees 

With  'melodies    of   Spring. 

The   pulse    of  nature    throbs    anew, 

Impassioned    by    the    sun  ; 
The   violet,    with    eyes    of   blue, 

Is   modest    as   a   nun ; 
The   roses   reck    not    of  the    strife 

That   crashes   from   the    North — • 
8* 


142  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Alas  !    the   mockery   of  life, 
When   Death   is   striding   forth. 

An    alien    in    this   lovely   land, 

I    sound    an    alien    strain, 
Until   my    own   fair   State   shall    stand, 

Inviolate    again. 
The   long-lost   Pleiad    of  our   sky 

Is   glimmering   still   afar, 
The    nations   yet   shall    see    on    high, 

That   bright   and   blessed   star. 

The  church  bells  toll  their  solemn  chime, 

Above   the   minster    eaves, 
Knelling   some    old   religious   rhyme, 

Half-stifled  by  the  leaves, 
A    thousand   miles  away,   I   hear, 

Those  grand   Cathedral  notes, 
Which  made  my  youth  a  fairy  sphere, 

With  cymbal-clashing  throats. 

And   oh,   I  feel  as  men   must  feel 

WTho  have  not  wept  for  years  ! 
Upon  my  cheek  behold  the  seal 

Of  consecrated  tears. 
A  mighty  Sabbath    calm   is  mine, 

That  baffles  human   lore  ; 
A   resurrection   of   "  Lang  Syne  "- 

A  guiltless  child  once  more  ! 

And  Mother's  schoolboy,  with  his  mimes, 
This   beaming   Sunday   morn, 


OF    THE     WAR.  143 

Forgets  the  grim,   tumultuous  times 

That  hardened  him  in  scorn  ; 
Forgets  terrific   ocean  days 

Beyond   the   tropic    gat'es, 
Where  the  Magellan   clouds  gaze    down 

On  Patagonian  straits. 

He  nothing  heeds  the  long  despair 

Within  the  savage  .  swamp, 
The  jungle  and  the  thicket,   where 

The   serpent  tribes    encamp : 
He   little    heeds   the   sport   of   fame, 

Its  treason    or   its  trust ; 
The  hope  of  a  sonorous  name — 

A  requiem   from   the    dust. 

But  oh,   he  heeds    elysian  hours, 

That   tell    of  Long  Ago  ! 
Those  dreamy  days  in   College  towers, 

He   nevermore  shall   know ; 
The  home  he    never  more  may  see, 

A   Paradise  to  him — 
The  books  he  read   at  Mother's  knee, 

When  her  dear  eyes  grew  dim. 

0,   Mother  !    Mother  !   years  must  fleet, 

Along  the  battle  track, 
Ere  yet  thy  lonely   heart  can  greet 

Its  weary  wanderer  back ; 
A   deathless  love    these  tears  bespeak, 

For  thy   devotion  shed, 
With  thy  pure  kisses  on  my  cheek, 

Thy  blessings  on  my  head  ! 


144  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


THE    SOLDIER'S   FAREWELL   TO    HIS  WIFE. 

BY    WILLIAM    K.    CAMPBELL,    OF    GREENEVILLE,    S.    C. 

Side  by   side,   and  hand   in  hand, 

Silently   we    sit ; 
For   the   parting   hour   is   near, 

Swift   the   moments   flit ! 
Scarce  a  word  is  uttered  now 

But   our    eyelids   fill ; 
And   the   children  too,   are    sad, 
.    '   Their   rosy   lips   are    still. 

Looks,  and   tears   are    all    that   speak, 

And    the    smothered    sigh  ; 
Hark — the    rolling   carriage   wheels, 

And    the    coachman's    cry  ! 
Hurriedly    "  Good  bye  "    is   said, 

One    fond   pressure   more — 
Then  the  prayer  "May  God  bless  you!" 

And   the    parting  's    o'er ! 

Oh,  the  pain  that  parting  brings  ! 

Sorrow  weighs  the  heart, 
And  the  aching  breast  will  heave, 

And   the    tears   will    start ; 
For  the  painful  thought  will  rise 

That,  when  now  we  sever, 


OF    THE     WAR.  145 

We  perchance  will  meet  again, 
Nevermore — oh,  never  1 

Shall  thy  eyes,  my  dearest  wife, 

Beam  once   again   on  me  ? 
Shall  I  kiss  those  loving  lips 

Oft  pressed  so  tenderly  ? 
Thy  sweet  smile  and  welcome  home, 

Will  kind   Heaven  restore  ? 
Shall  I  meet  my  little  ones 

Happily,    once    more  ? 

Oh  !    'tis  hard  to  part  from  home, 

Feeling,   day  by   day, 
That   the    loved    ones   left  behind, 

Slowly   pine    away  ! 
Thoughtless    children    may   forget — 

Oh  !    their   happy   lot ! 
But  their  mother's  grief   flows  on, 

She   forgetteth    not ! 

JA.MKS'  ISLANH,  1862. 


146  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


THE   SOLDIEK'S  GRAVE. 

BY   PEARL. 

'Tis  where  no  chisel's  tracing  tells, 

The  tumble,  sleeper's  name, 
No  storied  marble  proudly  swells, 

The  measure   of  his  fame. 

Nor  while  the  pensive  moonbeams  sleep, 

Upon  the  dim  blue  wave, 
Do  mourning  kindred   come  to  weep, 

Beside  the  soldier  s  grave. 

But  poised  upon  her  gleaming  wings, 

The  beauteous  summer  bird, 
In   sweet  and  melting  strains  to  sing 

His  requiem  is  heard. 

And  oft  as  spring  her  garland,  weaves, 

There  blooms  her  dewy  rose, 
And  autumn  strews  her  yellow  leaves, 

Above  his  deep  repose. 

So  true  is  Nature  to  his  tomb, 

So  true  I  almost  crave, 
While  musing  on  the  soldier's  doom, 

To  fill  a  soldier's  grave. 

Victoria  Advocate. 


OF    THE    WAR.  147 


THE   SOLDIER'S  LAST  COMBAT. 

BY    MRS.    ELIZA    E.    HARPER. 

The  soldier  girded  his  armor  on, 

The  fire  of  hope  in  his  bright  eyes  shone, 

He  knew  he  must  meet  his  foe  ere  long, 

But  his  heart  was  beating  high  and  strong. 

Feeling  naught  of  fear  or  dread, 

As  he  heard  the  swift  approaching  tread — 

Not  with  the  sound  of  stirring  drums, 

Not  as  an  earthly  foeman  comes, 

Not  with  the  din  of  the  cannon's  rattle, 

Nor  with  the  pomp  and  blaze  of  battle  ; 

The  severed  cord  and  the  broken  bowl, 

Marked  the  foe — a  foe  of  old  ! 

He  must  prepare  to  meet  him  alone, 

Of  all  the  thousands  there,  not  one 

Could  go  forth  now,  by  his  side  to  fight, 

For  his  foe  was  hidden   from  mortal  sight. 

He  looked  on  his  brothers,  the  friends  of  his  youth, 

Who  had  gathered  round  his  pain  to  soothe, 

His  thoughts  went  back,  to  the  southern  home, 

To  which  he  nevermore  might   come. 

The  view  of  the   dear  ones  gathered  there, 

Spread  o'er  his  soul,   the  gloom  of   despair, 

He  girded  his  armor  closer  on, 

Shut  out  the  sight  of  joys  that  are  gone, 


148  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

With  a  prayer,  and  a  blessing  they  could  not  hear, 
He  turned  to  the  foeman  drawing  near. 
He  looked  on  his  "  Captain,"  whose  tearful   eyes, 
"Whose  compressed  lips,   and  smothered  sighs, 
And  heart  too  full   for  words  of  cheer, 
Told  how   he  loved  his  brave   soldier.    • 
He  smiled,  as  he  bade  his  "Captain"  "good-bye," 
He  saw  beside  him,   with  faith's  clear  eye, 
Jesus,   the  "  Captain  of  Israel's  host, 
And  all  his  pain  in  that  vision,   was  lost. 
Tired  nature   at  length  gave  way, 
And  sleep,  o'er  the   soldier,   held  her  sway, 
Till  he  woke  again   from  visions  bright, 
Saw  in   his  room   a  glorious  light, 
Knew  from  angels'"  wings  it  shone, 
And  girded  his  armor  closer   on. 
.  Stronger  his  heart  to  meet  the  foe, 
Whose  coming  now  seemed   but  too  slow, 
Triumph  in   his  dimmed   eyes  glistened, 
His  friends  draw  near,   and  eagerly  listened 
To  the  sound  of  his  clear,  though  feeble  voice, 
"  JT  have  fought  a  good  fight,  I  have  finished  my  course^ 
I  have  kept  the  faith  —  "       *       *       *       *       * 
*****       and  all  was  past ! 
He  had  met  his  foe  and  conquered  at  last. 

October,  1861. 


OF    THE     WAR.  149 


HOME    AGAIN! 

Written  in   Prison. 
BY     JEFF.     THOMPSON. 

My  dear  wife  awaits  my  coming, 

My   children,  lisp  my  ixame, 
And  kind  friends  wait  to  welcome 

Me  to  my  own  home  again. 
My  father's  grave  lies  on  the  hill, 

My  boys  sleep   in  the  vale, 
I  love   each  rock   and  murmuring  rill, 

Each  mountain,   hill,    and    dale, 

Home   again  ! 

I'll   suffer  hardships,   toil  and   pain, 

For  the   good  times  that  are  to  come, 
I'll   battle   long   that   I  may   gain 

My  freedom  and  my  home. 
I  will  return,  though  foes  may  stand, 

Disputing    every    rod ; 
My   own  dear  home — my  native  land — 

I'll  win  you  yet  through   God, 

Home  again  ! 


150  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


MY  FATHER. 

[The  following  beautiful  lints  were  written  by  Brigadier-General 
HENRY  R.  JACKSON,  of  Georgia,  \\ho  was  re  ently  operating  in 
the  Confederate  Army,  below  Richmond  :] 

As  die  the  embers  on  the  hearth, 

And   o'er  the  hearth  the  shadows  fall, 
And  creeps  the  chirping  cricket  forth, 

And  ticks  the   death-watch  in  the  wrall, 
I  see  a  form  in  yonder  chair, 

That  grows  beneath  the  waning  light, 
There  are  the   wan,  sad  features — there 

The  pallid  brow  and  locks  of  white. 

My  father !  when  they  laid  thee  down, 

And  heaped 'the   clay  upon  thy  breast, 
And  left  thee  sleeping  all  alone 

Upon  thy  narrow  couch  of  rest, 
I   know  not  why,   I   could  not  weep — 

The  soothing  drops  refused  to  roll, 
And   oh !  that  grief  is  wild  and  deep, 

Which  settles  tearless  on  the  soul. 

But  when  I  saw  thy  vacant  chair, 

Thine  idle  hat  upon  the  wall, 
The  book — the  penciled  passage  where 

Thy  eye  had  rested  last  of  all — 


OF    THE     WAR.  151 

The  tree  beneath,  whose  friendly  shade, 
Thy  trembling  feet  had  wandered  forth, 

The  very  prints  those  feet  had  made, 
When  last  they  feebly  trod  the  earth ; 

And  thought  while  countless  ages  fled, 
Thy  vacant  seat  would  vacant  stand — 

Unworn  the  hat — thy  book  unread — 
Effaced  thy  footsteps  from  the  sand — 

And  widowed  in  this  cheerless  world, 
The  heart  that  gave  its  love  to  thee — 

Torn,   like  the  vine  whose  tendrils  curled 

.    More  closely  round  the  falling  tree — 

0,  father !  then  for  her  and  thee 

Gushed  madly  forth  the  scorching  tears; 
And  oft  and  long,  and  bitterly 

Those  tears  have  gushed  in  later  years; 
For  as  the  world  grows  cold  around, 

And  things  assume  their  real  hue, 
'Tis  sad  to  find  that  love  is  found, 

Alone  above  the  stars  with  you. 


SOUTHERN   POEMS 

MY  WIFE  AND  CHILD. 

BY    HENEY  K.   JACKSON. 

* 

The  tattoo  beats — the  lights  are  gone, 
The   camp   around  in  slumber  lies, 

The  night  with  solemn  peace  moves  on, 
The  shadows  thicken  o'er  the  skies  ; 

But  sleep  my  weary  eyes  hath  flown, 
And  sad,   uneasy  thoughts  arise. 

I  think  of  thee,  oh,  dearest  one, 

Whose  love  my  early  life  hath  blest ; 

Of  thee  and  him — our  baby  son — 
Who  slumbers  on  thy  gentle  breast. 

God  of  the  tender,  frail  and  lone, 
Oh,  guard  the  tender  sleepers'  rest ! 

And  hover  gently,  hover  near 

To  her,  whose  watchful  eye  is  wet — 

To  mother,  wife — the  doubly  dear, 

In  whose  young  heart  have  freshly  met 

Two  streams  of  love  so  deep  and  clear, 
And  cheer  her  drooping  spirits  yet. 

Now,   while  she  kneels  before  Thy  throne, 
Oh,  teach  her,  Ruler  of  the  skies, 

That,  while  by  Thy  behest  alone, 
Earth's  mightiest  powers  fall  or  rise, 


OF    THE     WAR.  153 

No  tear  is  wept  to   Thee  unknown, 
No  hair  is  lost,   no  sparrow  dies  ! 

That  Thou  can'st  stay  the  ruthless  hand 
Of   dark  disease,   and  sooth  its  pain, 

That   only  by  Thy  high  command 

The   battle's   lost,  the   soldier's  slain — 

That  from  the   distant  sea  or  land, 

Thou  bring'st  the  wanderer  home   again. 

And  when   upon  her  pillow  lone 

Her  tear-wet   cheeks   are   sadly  prest; 

May   happier  visions  beam   upon 

The  brightening  current  of   her  breast  ; 

No  frowning  look  or  angry  tone, 
Disturb  the   Sabbath  of   her  rest. 

Whatever  fate  those  forms  may  show, 
Loved  with  a  passion   almost  wild — 

By  day — by  night — in  joy  or  woe — 
By  fears  oppressed,  or  hopes  beguiled, 

From  every  danger,  every  foe, 
Oh,   God  !    protect  my  wife  and  child  ! 


SOUTHERN    POEMS 


A  MOTHER'S  PRAYER. 

[We  venture  to  say  that  there  are  few  mothers  whose  hearts  will 
not  swell  respousively  to  the  tender  sentiment  expressed  in  the 
following  lyric.  Every  stanza  is  brimful  of  unshed  tears  :] 

Father  !    in  the  battle  fray, 
Shelter  his  dear  head,  I  pray  ! 
Nerve  his  young  arm  with  the  might 
Of  Justice,  Liberty  and  Right ! 
Where  the  red  hail  deadliest  fails, 
"Where  stern  duty  loudest  calls, 
Where  the  strife  is  fierce  and  wild, 
Father  !    guard,  oh  !    guard  my  child  ! 

Where  the  foe  rush  swift  and  strong, 
Madly  striving  for  the  wrong  ; 
Where  the  clashing  arms  men  •  wield 
Ring  above  the  battle-field ; 
Where  the  stifling  air  is  hot 
With  bursting  shell  and  whistling  shot — 
Father  !.  to  my  boy's  brave  breast 
Let  no  bloody  blade  be  pressed  ! 

Father  !    if  my  woman's  heart — 
Frail  and  weak  in  every  part — 
Wanders  from  the  mercy-seat 
After  these  dear  roving  feet, 


OF    THE     WAR.  155 

Let  thy  tender,  pitying  grace 
Every  selfish  thought  erase  ; 
If  this  mother's  love  be  wrong — - 
Pardon,  bless  and  make  me  strong. 

For,  when  silent  shades  of   night, 
Shut  the  bright  world  from  my  sight — 
When  around  the   cheerful  fire — 
Gather  brothers,  sisters,  sire — • 
There  I  miss  my  bright  boy's  face 
From  his  old  familiar  place, 
And  my  sad  heart  wanders  back 
To  tented  field  and  bivouac. 

• 

Often  in  my  troubled  sleep — 
Waking,   wearily  to  weep — 
Often  dreaming  he  is  near, 
Claiming  every  anxious   fear, 
Often  started  by  the  flash 
Of  hostile  swords  that  meet  and  clash, 
Till  the  cannons'   smoke  and  roar 
Hide  him  from  my  eyes  once  more  ! 

Thus  I  dream,  and  hope   and  pray 
All  the  weary  hours  away  ; 
But  I  know  his  cause  is  just, 
And  I  centre   all  my  trust 
In  Thy  promise  :     "As  thy  day 
So  shall  thy  strength  be" — alway  ! 
Yet  I  need  Thy  guidance  still ! 
Father  !    let  me  do  Thy  will ! 


156  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

If  now  sorrow  should  befall — 
If  my  noble  boy  should  fall — 
If  the  bright  head   I  have  blessed, 
On  the   cold   earth  find   its  rest ; 
.     Still,   with  all  the  mother  heart 
Torn,  and  quivering  with  the  smart, 
I  yield  him,    'neath   Thy  chast'ning  rod, 
To  his  country  and  his  'God. 


MOTHER  TO  HER  SON  IN  THE  TRENCHES 
AT  PETERSBURG. 

BY    W.    D.    PORTER. 

The  winter  night  is  dark   and   chill, 
The  winter  rains  the  trenches  fill — 
Oh  !    art  thou   on  the   outposts  still, 
My  soldier  boy  ? 

Thy  mother's  heart  is  sick  with  fear, 
The  moaning  winds  sound  sad  and   drear, 
The  foeman   lurks  in  ambush  near 
My  soldier  boy  ! 

One  treacherous  shot  may  lay  thee   low  ; 
My  stricken  heart,  with  such  a  blow, 
Nor  rest  nor  peace  again  would  know, 
My  soldier  boy  !  % 


OF    THE     WAR.  157 

Thy  tender  years  and  soft  brown   eyes 
111  suited  seem  to  such  emprise, 
But  in  thy  soul  the  manhood  lies, 
My  soldier  boy  ! 

• 

I  think  by  day  and  dream  by  night, 
I  start  at  tidings  of  the  fight, 
And  learn  thee  safe  with  such  delight, 
My  soldier  boy  ! 

Cheerful  and  bright,  thou   dost  essay 
To  chase  my  every  fear  away, 
And  turn  the  darkness  into   day, 

My  soldier  boy  ! 

• 

In  thee  I  gave  what  most   I  love. 
For  thy  return,   thou  weary   dove, 
I  lift  my  fervent  prayer  above, 
My  soldier  boy  ! 

Temper  the  wind  to  my  dear  child, 
0   God  !    and  curb  the  winter  wild, 
And  keep  in  Thy  embraces  mild 
My  soldier  boy  ! 


158  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


THE   LADIES   OF   RICHMOND. 

• 

A  correspondent  of  the  Charleston  Courier,  who  writes  with  equal 
grace  and  facility,  in  verse  and  prose,  thus  refers  to  the  ladies 
of  Richmond,  who,  to  do  them  justice,  have  fully  come  up  to 
the  measure  of  his  poetic  praise  in  their  ministrations  to  the 
sick  and  wounded  soldiers  during  the  war. 

•  Fold  away  all  your  bright-tinted   dresses, 

Turn  the  key  on  your  jewels  to-day, 
And  the  wealth  of  your  tendril-like  tresses 

Braid  back,  in   a  serious  way  :• 
No  more  delicate  gloves — no  more  laces, 
_  No  more  trifling  in  boudoir   or  bower, 
But  come — with  your  souls  in   your  faces — 
To  meet  the  stern   needs   of   the  hour  !       • 

Look  around  !     By  the  torch-light  unsteady, 

The   dead   and  the  dying  seem  one, 
What !    paling  and   trembling  already, 

Before  y"our  dear  mission's  begun  ? 
These  wounds  are  more  precious  than  ghastly, 

Time  presses  her  lips  to  each  scar, 
As  she   chaunts  of  a  glory  wjiich.  vastly 

Transcends  all  the  horrors   of  war. 

•     Pause  here  by  this  bedside — how  mellow 
The  light  showers  down  on  that  brow  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  159 

Such  a  brave,  brawny  visage  !     Poor  fellow  ! 

Some  homestead  is  missing  him  now  : 
Some  wife  shades  her  eyes  in  the  clearing, 

Some  mother  sits  moaning,  distressed, 
While  the  loved  one?  lies  faint,  but  unfearing, 

With  the  enemy's  ball  in  his  breast. 

Here's  another  ;    a  lad — a  mere  stripling — 

Picked  up  on  the  field,  almost  dead, 
With  the  blood  through  his  sunny  hair  rippling, 

From  a  horrible  gash  in  the  head. 
They  say  he  was  first  in  the  action, 

Gay-hearted,  quick-handed,  and  witty  ; 
He  fought,  till  he  fell*  with  exhaustion, 

At  the  gates  of  our  fair  Southern  city. 

Fought  and  fell   'neath  the  guns  of  that  city, 
With  a  spirit  transcending  his  years. 

Lift  him  up,  in  your  large-hearted -pity, 
And  wet  his  pale  lips  with  your  tears. 

Touch  him  gently — most  sacred  the   duty 
Of   dressing  that  poor  shattered  hand  ! 

God  spare   him  to  rise  in   his  beauty, 

And  battle  once  more  for  his  land  ! 

• 

Who  groaned  ?     What  a  passionate  murmur — 
"In   Thy  mercy,   0   God!    let  me  die!" 

Ha  !    surgeon,  your  hand  must  be  firmer, 
That  grapeshot   has  shattered  his  thigh. 

Fling  the  light  on  those  poor  furrowed  features  ; 
Gray-haired  and  unknown,  bless  the  brother  ! 


160  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

0  God  !    that  one   of   Thy  -creatures 

Should  e'er  work   such  woe   on  another  ! 

Wipe  the  sweat  from  his  brow  with  your  kerchief, 

Let  the  stained,   tattered  'collar  go  wide, 
See  !    he   stretches   out  blindly  to  search  if 

The  surgeon  still  stands  at  his  side. 
"  My  son's  over  yonder  !    he's  wounded — 

Oh!  this  ball  that  has  broken  my  thigh!" 
And  again  he  burst  out,  all  a-tremble, 

"In  Thy  mercy,   0  God!    let  me  die!" 

Pass  on  !     It  is  useless  to^  linger, 

While  others  are  claiming  your   care, 
There's  need  of  your  delicate  finger, 

For  your  womanly   sympathy,   there. 
There   are   sick   ones,   athirst  for   caressing — 

There  are  dying  ones,  raving  of   home — 
There  are  wounds  to  be  bound  with  a  blessing — 

And  shrouds  to  make  ready  for  some. 

They  have  gathered  about  you  the   harvest 

Of  death,  in  its  ghastliest  view, 
The   nearest,   as  well  as  the  farthest, 

Is  here  with* the   traitor  and  true  ! 
And  crowned  with  your  beautiful   patience, 

Made  sunny,  with  love  at  the   heart, 
You  must  bind  up  the  wounds  of  a  nation, 

Nor  falter,  nor  shrink  from  your  part ! 

Up  and  down,  through  the  wards,  where  the  fever 
Stalks  noisome,   and  gaunt,  and  impure, 


OF    THE     WAR.  163 

V. 

Daughters  of  Southland,  come  bring  ye  bright  flowers, 
Weave  ye  a  chaplet  for  the  brow   of  the  brave, 
Bring  ye  some  emblem  of  freedom  and  victory, 
Bring  ye  some   emblem   of  death  and  the  grave  ; 
Bring  ye  some   motto  befitting   a  hero, 
Bring  ye  exotics  that  never  will  fade, 
Come  to  the  deep  crimsoned  valley  of  Richmond, 
And  crown  the  young  chieftain  who  led  his  Brigade. 


LINES 

On  the  death  of  Lieut.  Henry  Lewis,  commanding  Company  B, 
of  the  47th  Virginia  Volunteers,  who  was  killed  in  the  battle 
of  Seven  Pines,  on  the  31st  of  May,  1862  ;  written  by  a  lady 
who  knew  his  virtues  and  loved  him  well  : 

He  lay  among  the  dying,  and  the  battle  raged  near  by, 
Upon  the  moist  sod  lying  he  wras  left  to  bleed  and  die, 
Yet  comrades  came  to  seek  him,  and  raised  his  droop 
ing  head — 
"Go  win  our  country's  cause,"  he  said,  "and  leave  me 

with  the  dead." 
Whole  squadrons   swept  beside  them,   and  the  cannon 

thundered   on, 

His  friends  rushed  with  the  tide  of  wTar,  and  he  was 
left  alone  ! 


162  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

II.  • 

See  ye  the  fires  and  flashings  still  leaping, 

Hear  ye  the  pelting  and  beating  of  "storm, 

See  ye  the   banners  of  proud  Alabama — » 

In  front  of  her   columns  move   steadily  on  ? 

Hear  ye  the  music   that  gladdens  each  comrade — 

As  it  floats  through  the  air  amid  the  torrent  of  sounds, 

Hear  ye  !  booming  adown  the  red  valley, 

Carter  unbuckles  his  swarthy   old  hounds. 

• 

in. 

Twelfth  Mississippi,   I  saw  your  brave   columns 
Eush  through  the   channels   of  living  and  dead  ; 
Twelfth  Alabama,   why  wreep  your  old  war  horse, 
He  died   as  he  wished,  in  the   gear  at  your  head. 
Seven   Pines,   ye  will  tell   on  the  pages  of  glory, 
How  the  blood  of  the   South  ebbed  away   'neath  the 

shade, 

How  the  lads  of  Virginia  fought  in  the  red  valley, 
And  fell  in  the  columns  of  Rodes'   Brigade. 

IV. 

Fathers  and  mothers,   ye  weep   for  your  jewels, 
Sisters,   ye  weep  for  your  brothers  in  vain, 
Maidens,   ye  weep  for  your  sunny-eyed  lovers, 
Weep,   for  they  never  will   come   back  again  ! 
Weep  ye,   but  know  what  a  halo   of   glory, 
Encircles  each  chamber  of  death  newly  made, 
And  know  ye  that  victory,  the  shrine  of  the  mighty, 
Stands  forth  on  the  banners  of  Rodes'   Brigade. 


OF    THE     WAR.  163 

V. 

Daughters  of  Southland,  come  bring  ye  bright  flowers, 
"Weave  ye  a  chaplet  for  the  brow   of  the  brave, 
Bring  ye  some  emblem  of  freedom  and  victory, 
Bring  ye  some   emblem   of   death  and  the   grave  ; 
Bring  ye  some  motto  befitting   a  hero, 
Bring  ye  exotics  that  never  will  fade, 
Come  to  the  deep  crimsoned  valley  of  Richmond, 
And  crown   the  young  chieftain  who  led  his  Brigade. 


LINES 

On  the  death  of  Lieut.  Henry  Lewis,  commanding  Company  B, 
of  the  47th  Virginia  Volunteers,  who  was  killed  in  the  battle 
of  Seven  Pines,  on  the  31st  of  May,  1862  ;  written  by  a  lady 
who  knew  his  virtues  and  loved  him  well  : 

He  lay  among  the  dying,  and  the  battle  raged  near  by, 
Upon  the  moist  sod  lying  he  was  left  to  bleed  and  die, 
Yet  comrades  came  to  seek  him,  and  raised  his  droop 
ing  head — 
"Go  win  our  country's  cause,"  he  said,  "and  leave  me 

with  the  dead." 
Whole   squadrons   swept  beside  them,   and  the  cannon 

thundered   on, 

His  friends  rushed  with  the  tide  of  war,  and  he  was 
left  alone  ! 


L64 


I 

i 


cea  o 

' 
• 


Of     Till':      WAIL. 


"  1  :. \TION  WANTi-l; 

"Of    my  HOO, .     He    was    known    to    be    engag<-'l    in 

l;i-.t. '3  fight,    an'l   <;tnnot   now   \,i-  found.   '  WaH  a  private  in, 

Company  — ,  —    liniment,  Volunteers.      Any    tiding"   of 

him   will    be    L'ratfcfully  received    by  h'a  anxious  father  at  


"  Oh  !    ;-;f .ranger,    can    you    tell    me   where, 

Where    in  rny   Loy — my   bravo   bright   boy  ! 
lie    wan   the   light   of   rny  failing  eye, 

:/«:M.]<;    moth(-f';-;    lifV:    ;,.fj'l  joy. 
All   day   I've  walko-'l    t.h«:   orov. <\'-A    :-• . 

Piercing  ill';  gro:ij/-:   with   oag^r  gla/,- 
Vainly  quefttioning  all   I   meet — 

.  ohing  the  slow  drawn  ambulance. 

"  The  sounding  war-trump  rung  afar, 

We  heard  it  by  the  South  «ea  wave, 
'Mid  the  orange  grove:-:  of  Florida, 

It  summoned  forth  the  true  and  brave. 
I  gave  him  the  sword  I  used  to  wear, 

To  wield   again   for  hi;-:  country's  right  ; 
ye  him  my  i  aid  heard  him  swear 

He  would  falter  not  in  thf  corning  fight. 

"His  mother's  eyes  were  dimmed  with  tears, 
She  pr<;.-:>:ed  her  first-born  to   her  heart — 

His  dark-eyed  sister  scorning  fears, 
With  hidden  woe,  bade  him  depart. 
9* 


166  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

But  say — oh  say — you've  seen  him  well, 
Or  how  shall  I  meet  Mary  again — 

How  shall  my  palsied  tongue  e'er  tell, 
Our  noble  boy's  among  the  slain  ?" 

11  Alas  !  I  saw  the  boy  too  well, 

Dead  on  the  gory  battle-field — 
Saw  where  in  thickest  fight  he  fell, 

"While  through  our  ranks  the  cannon  pealed  ; 
I  saw  him  mount  the  battery's"  side, 

Over  the  mortars   grim  and  dread — 
Where  .  Southrons  like  an   ocean  tide, 

Swept"  o'er  the  heaps  of  mangled  dead. 

"  After  the  fight  I  found  him  there 

Under  the  murderous    cannon's  mouth — 
While  many  heads  of   raven  hair, 

Near  by,   spoke   of  the  sunny   South. 
Brave  hearts  !    on  gory  beds  they  fell, 

With  wounds  that  still  their  daring  show, 
How  loved  they  were   our  tears  shall  tell, 

How  well  they  fought  the  foemen  know." 

"  Oh  !  stranger,  lead  me  where  he  lies, 

To  kiss  away  the  powder  stain — 
And  let  me  close  his  glazing  eyes, 

Ere  mother  sees  his  face  again  ! 
My  boy  !  my  boy  !  my  brave,  bright  boy  ! 

Could  not  the  cruel  death  shot  spare  ! 
From  thy  loved  'home  has  fled  the  joy, 

And  dark  'twill  be  without  thee  there." 


OF    THE     WAR.  167 

I  left  him  mourning  o'er  his  dead, 

That  saddened  father,  old  and  gray — 
O'er  that  boy  on  his  martial  bed, 

Stricken  alas  !  before  his  day. 
Oh  !  Eichmond,   queen  of  the  gory  plain — 

List  to  thy  Southern  sisters'   wail, 
Think  of  the  precious  ones  that  stain, 

With  their  best  blood,  thy  crimsoned  vale  ! 


THE   DRUMMER   BOY. 

A  drummer  boy  in  the  agony  of  death  being  asked  where  he 
was  from,  replied  that  his  mother  had  sent  him  from  Mississippi 
"  to  fight  and  defend  her  home,"  and  that  "he  did  not  regret 
it,  and  was  ready  to  do  it  again."  He  wanted  to  see  his 
mother,  and  said,  "My  mother  is  a  good  woman,  too;  she 
would  treat  a  poor  sick  prisoner  kindly,  and  if  she  were  here 
she  would  kiss  me."  "I  will  kiss  you,  my  child,"  said  a 
lady,  "for  your  mother,"  and  she  did  so.  The  child  was 
already  at  the  last  gasp,  and  in  a  few  moments  he  expired. 

N.   Y.  Post. 


BY     JAMES     R.     BREWER. 


All  pallid  upon  his  couch  he  lay, 

As  death  fast  dimm'd  his  eye, 
And  his  wandering  thoughts  were  far  away, 

For  he  knew  that  he  must  die. 
His  parching  lips  must  thirst  in  Vain, 

For  his  blood  went  with  his  breath, 


168  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

And  the  racking  pain  that  rent  life's  chain, 

Would  leave  him  still  in  death  ; 
And  the  tear  that  nature  -bade  him  weep, 
Should  glaze  his  eye  when  cold  in  sleep. 

And  they  asked  the  slowly    dying  child, 

Why  one  so  young  should  roam  ? 
And  the  ashen  lips,  replying,  smiled, 

"  To  defend  my  Mother's  home  !  " 
"  She  kissed  me  with  a  tearful  smile, 

And  bade  me  be  a   man, 
So  I  marched  where  Death  its  victims  piled, 

And  led  the  battle's  van, 
Till,  where  the  streams  of  carnage  flow, 
I  fell  beneath  a  cruel  blow. 

"  But  though  my  body's  racked  with  pain, 

I  cherish  no  regret, 
And  I  wrould  again,  through  the  leaden  rain, 

Lead  Freedom's  legions  yet ; 
And  glory-crowned,  -in  peace,  draw  near 

The  scene  of  childish  joy, 
And  a  mother's  prayer  and  a  mother's  tear 

Should  welcome  back  her  boy — 
But  no,  ah,  no  !  I  feel  the  smart, 
The  hand  of  death  is  on  my  heart ! 

"  My  God  !    Oh,  would  that  she  were  here, 
To  kiss  me,  ere  I  die  —  "  x 

With  a  vacant  stare  of  wrild  despair, 
He  struggled  back  to  die. 

His  strength  was  gone,  his  frame  was  weak, 


OF    THE     WAR.  169 

And  dull  his  gasping  sigh, 
For  the  hectic  streak  and  the  sunken  cheek 

Proclaimed  the  destroyer  nigh  ; 
Whilst  a  prayer  escapes  his  lips  of  foam, 
"  Oh,  God  !  defend  my  Mother's  home  !  "  • 

'Tis  done — his  gentle  spirit's  flown, 

With  the  youthful  hero.'s  breath, 
And  the  Angel  throng  with  his  soul  is  gone, 

And  he  smiles  alone  in  death. 
While  fellow  Angels  watch  his  grave, 

To  her  home  he  flits  away, 
In  her  hours  of  sleep  his  vigils  to  keep 

And  guard  her  through  the  day. 
And  now  no  longer  doomed  to  roam, 
He  watches  above  his  Mother's  home. 

ANNAPOLIS,  July  28,  1862. 


170  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


THE    OLD    BRIGADE. 

• 

VIRGINIA'S    IST,    7TH,    HTH    AND    17xH. 
BY     MAURICE     D'fiELL. 

Behold  yon  throng  of  heroes  !  . 

Their  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim,       • 
With  weary  watching — with  weight  of  war, 

Worn  every  aching  limb  ; 
But,  if  ever  a  ba'nd  of  warriors  won 
A  paean  for  deeds  of  valor  done, 
They  deserve  indeed  the  glorious  meed, 

And  the  proud  triumphal  hymn  ! 

'Tis  the  Old  Brigade  of  Longstreet, 

Virginia's  loved  Brigade, 
The  brave  Brigade  of  Ewell, 

That  glorious  Hill  has  swayed  ; 
That  wherever  the-  storm  of  battle  burst, 
In  place,  as  in    name,  has  been  the  "  First," 
That  has  met  the  foe,  and  by  bolt  and  blow, 

Their  strong  advance  has  stayed. 

Ah  yes,  their  ranks  are  meagre, 
And  their  lines  are  worn  and  thin, 

For  long  they  have  dared  the   death-shots, 
Amidst  the  battle's  din  ; 


OF    THE     WAR.  '171 

The  first  to  check  the  invading  host, 

In  the  last  dread  strife,  to  bleed  the  most, 

They  have  courted  fate,  for  themselves  and  State 

The  victor's  crown  to  win. 

i 
With  tearful  joy  Virginia, 

Her  share  of  their  proud  praise  claims,. 
For  they  came  from  the  broad  Potomac, 

And  the  beauteous  banks  of  James  ; 
With  the  men  of  the  mountain,  side  by  side, 
To  weave  for  their  mother  a  chaplet  of  pride, 
That  her  brows  shall  wear,  whenever  and  where 

Are  named  heroic  names.  0 

On  the  fields  that  glow  with  their  glory, 

The  shrines  of  their  martyrs  we  see, 
Of  Humphries,  and  Mitchell  and  Waller, 

Of  Harrison,  Carter  and  Lee. 
And  wherever  their  gallant  ranks  have  stood, 
From  the  foes'  footsteps  in  the  foes'  best  blood, 
With  bayonet  sharp  and  furious  fire, 

The  have  washed  their  loved  soil  free  ! 

And  hark  !  as  we  gaze,  the  thunder 

Bursts  on  the  startled  air, 
And  the  ominous  order  issues  forth — 

"For  the   conflict  now  prepare!" 
And  eyes  that  were  heavy  and  limbs  that  are  scarred 
When   their  banners  are  pointing  battle-ward, 
Beaming  and  bright — active  and  light, 

Boldly  and  bravely  bear  ! 


172  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

And  lo  !    on  these  flashing  banners, 

What  splendid  deeds  are  told  ! 
Bull   Run,   Manassas,   Williamsburg, 

Their  story  now   unfold, 
While  Frazier's  Farm  and  Seven   Pines, 
Tell  how  o'er  their  steady  lines, 
Hissing  and  hot,  the  shell  and  shot, 

In  mortal  wave's  have  rolled  ! 

Then   forward  !  veteran  legion, 

With   your  free  and  fearless  tread, 
With  your  banners,   blazoned  with  glory, 

To  the  battle-breezes  spread  ! 
We  will  help  you  on  with  such  hearty  cheers, 
As  you  send  up  when  the  foe  appears, 
And  your  onward  way  they  may  not  stay, 

Though  they  block  it  with  their  dead  ! 

• 

Oh  !    God  preserve  those  heroes 

Of  the  sturdy  heart  and  will ! 
The   old  brigade   of  Longstreet — 

The  loved  brigade  of  Hill ; 
Their  praise  shall  live  in   every  mouth — 
In  Virginia's  heart  and  the  heart  of  the   South, 
Though  their  banners  are  torn,  and  their  frames  are 
worn, 

There's  a  warm  place  for  them  still ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  173 


THE   BURIAL   OF   LATANE. 


In  General  Stuart's  famous  raid  around  the  rear  of  McClellan's 
army,  Ca^t.  Latane  was  the  only  man  killed.  His  brother, 

.  returning  after  the  fight,  carried  the  body  to  Dr.  Brocken- 
brough's  plantation  near  by,  and  left  it  with  Mrs.  Brocken- 
brough  to  be  interred.  Mrs.  B.  sent  for  a  clergyman  to  per 
form  the  funeral  rites,  but  he  not  being  permitted  to  pass,  she 
read  the  burial  service  herself,  some  ladies  of  the  family,  and 
a  few  faithful  servants,  forming  a  small,  sad  audience.  This 
scene  has  been  made  the  subject  of  a  touching  picture  by  Mr. 
Washington. 

BY  JNO.  K.  THOMPSON. 


The  combat  raged  not  long,  but  ours   the  day  ; 

And,  through  the  hosts   that   compassed  us  around, 
Our  little  band  rode  proudly  on  its  way, 
Leaving  one  gallant  comrade,  glory-crowned, 
Unburied  on  the  field  he  died  to  gain — 
Alone  of  all  his  men,  amid  the  hostile  slain. 

One  moment  on  the  battle's  edge   he  stood — 

Hope's  halo,  like  a  helmet,  round  his  hair — - 
The  next  beheld  him,  dabbled  in  his  blood, 

Prostrate  in  death  ;  and  yet,  in  death  how  fair  ! 
Even  thus  he  passed  through  the  red  gates  of 

strife, 

From  earthly  crowns  and   palms,  to  an  immor 
tal  life. 


174.  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

A  brother  bore  his  body  from  the  field, 

And  gave  it  unto  strangers'   hands,  that  closed 
The  calm  blue  eyes,  on    earth  forever  sealed, 
And  tenderly  the  slender  limbs  "composed  : 

Strangers,  yet  sisters,  who,  with  Mary's  love, 
Sat    by    the    open    tomb,    arid    weeping,    looked 
above. 

A  little  child  strewed  roses  on  his  bier — 

Pale  roses,  not  more  stainless  than  his  soul, 
Nor  yet  more  fragrant  than  his  life  sincere, 

That  blossomed  with  good  actions — brief,  but  whole ; 
The  aged  matron  and  the  faithful  slave 
Approached,  with  reverent  feet,  the  hero's  lowly 
grave. 

No  man  of^God  might  say  the  burial  rite 

Above  the  "  rebel  " — thus  declared  the  foe 
That  blanched  before  him  in    the  deadly  fight ; 
But  woman's  voice,  with  accents  soft  and  low, 

Trembling    with    pity — touched    with    pathos — 

read 
Over  his  hallowed  dust  the  ritual  for  the  dead. 

"  ' Tis  sown  in  weakness,   it  is  raised  in  power!" 

Softly  the  promise  floated  on  the  air. 
While  the  low  breathings  of  the  sunset  hour, 
Came  back  responsive  to  the  mourner's  prayer. 
Gently  they  laid  him  underneath  the  sod, 
And  left  him   with   his   fame,  his  country,  and 
his  God  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  175 

Let  us  not  weep  for  him,  whose  deeds  endure  ! 

So  young,  so  brave,  so  beautiful !     He  died 
As  he  had  wished  to  die  ;  the  past  is  sure  ; 
Whatever  yet  of  sorrow  may  betide 

Those  who  still  linger  by  the  fctormy  shore, 
Change    can    not    harm    him    now,    nor    fortune 
touch  him  more. 

And  when  Virginia,  leaning  on  her   spear, 

Victrix  et  Vidua — the  conflict  done — 
Shall  raise  her  mailed  hand  to  wipe  the  tear 
That  starts  as  she  recalls  each  martyred  son, 
No  prouder  memory  her  breast  shall  sway 
Than  thine,  our  early  lost,  lamented  Latane  ! 


THE    BELEAGUERED    CITY. 

BY     ROSA     VERTNER     JEFFREY. 

There  's  a  beautiful  city,  far,  far  away, 

In  the  land  of  the  myrtle  and  rose, 
The  fair  land  of  my  birth — which,  I  hear  them  say, 

Is  beleaguered,  by  deadliest  foes  ; 
And  my  spirit  goes  forth  with  those  braves  to  stand, 

Who  are  striking  for  home   and  for  hearth, 
God  of  mercy  !  defend  that  heroic  band, 

In  this  beautiful  land  of  my  birth  ! 


176  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

"Tis  hard,  when  the  pulse  of  a  soldier  doth  thrill 

In  the  heart  of  a  woman — for  there 
While  burning  in   vain — it   enkindles  the  will 

Of  a  soldier  to  suffer  and  dare. 
When  war-bugles  sound  where  the  brave  win   or  fall, 

Then  I  burn  with  the  feverish  unrest 
A  ringdove  might  feel,   at  the  falconer's  call, 

Reared  by   chance  in  some  proud  falcon's  nest ! 

As  one  in  a  light-house,  who  watches  the  deep 

Through  a  tempest,   my   sad  spirit  seems 
A   vigil   of  love  o'er  that  fair  land  to  keep, 

Where  the  red  blood  is  flowing  in  streams. 
Though  mingled  with  tears,  yet  the  sod  where  it  flows 

Groweth  greener — the  butterflies'  wings 
Are  brighter,  and  even  the  blush  of  the  rose 

Deepens — down  by  those  dark  crimson  springs. 

Yet  he  in  the  light  house  is  void  of  the  power 

To   fetter   the  storms  as  they  rove, 
No  legions  of  watchers  can  stay  that  red  shower, 

Polluting  the  land  of  my   love. 
Bat  there  is  a  light-house  beyond  the  blue  steeps, 

Where  the  star-lamps  eternally  burn, 
And  there  dwells  a  watcher  whose  eye  never  sleeps, 

In  the  darkness  to  Him  let  us  turn. 


OF  'THE   WAR.  177 


RICHMOND    ON    THE    JAMES. 

BY     ANNlfc     MARIE     WELBY. 

A  soldier  boy  from  Bourbon,  lay  gasping  on  the  field, 
When   the    battle's   shock    was    over   and   the    foe  was 

forced  to  yield  ; 

He  fell,   a  youthful   hero,   before   the   foemen's  aims, 
On  a  blood-red  field  'near   Richmond,  near  Richmond 

on  the  James. 

But  one  still  stood  beside  him,  his  comrade  in  the  fray, 
They   had    been    friends    together    through   boyhood's 

happy  day, 
And    side    by  side    had    struggled,  on    fields    of  blood 

and  flames, 
To  part   that  eve,  near   Richmond,  near  Richmond  on 

the  James. 


He  said,  "  I  charge  thee,  comrade,  the-  friend  in  days 
of  yore, 

To  the  far,  far  distant  dear  ones  that  I  shall  see  no 
more, 

Tho'  scarce  my  lips  can  wrhisper  their  dear  and  well- 
known  names, 

To  bear  to  them  my  blessing  from  Richmond  on  the 
James. 


178  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

"  Bear   my  good  sword  to  my  brother,  and  the  badge 

upon  my  breast, 
To  the   young  and  gentle   sister,  that   I  used  to  love 

the  best ; 
One  lock  take  from  my  forehead   for   the  mother  still 

that  dreams 
Of  her   soldier   boy   near   Richmond  —  near   Richmond 

on  the  James. 

"  Oh,   I  wish   that  mother's   arms  were   folded   round 

me  now, 
That  her  gentle  hand  could  linger  one  moment  on  my 

brow ; 
But   I   know   that   she   is   praying  where    our   blessed 

hearth-light  gleams, 
For  her  soldier's  safe   return    from  Richmond  on  the 

James. 

"And    on    my    heart,    dear    comrade,    close    lay    those 

nut-brown  braids, 

Of  one  that  was  the  fairest  of  all  our  village  maids  ; 
We  were   to  have  been  wedded,  but  death  the  bride- 

• 

groom  claims, 

And  she  is  far,  that  loves  me,  from  Richmond  on  the 
James. 

'  Oh,  does  the  pale   face  haunt  her,  dear  friend,  that 

looks  on  thee  ? 

Or  is  she  laughing — singing,  in  careless,  girlish  glee  ? 
It  may  be  she  is  joyous— she  loves  but  joyous  themes, 
Nor  dreams  her  love  lies  bleeding  near  Richmond  on 
the  James. 


*  OF    THE     WAR.  179 

"  And  though    I  know,  dear  comrade,  thou'lt  miss  me 

for  awhile, 
When  their  faces — all  that  loved  thee — again  on  thee 

shall  smile, 
Again   thou'lt   be   the   foremost   in   all    their   youthful 

games, 
But  I  shall  lie  near  Richmond — near  Richmond  on 

the  James." 

And  far  from  all  that  loved  him  that  youthful  soldier 

sleeps, 
Unknown  among  the  thousands  of  those  his  country 

weeps ; 
But  no  higher  heart  nor  braver,  than  his,  at  sunset's 

beams, 
Was  laid  that  eve,  hear  Richmond  —  near  Richmond 

on  the  James. 

The   land   is   filled  with  mourning,  from   hall   and  cot 

left  lone, 
We  miss  •  the  well  known  faces  that  used  to  meet  our 

own, 
And   long,  poor  wives   and   mothers  shall  weep  —  and 

titled  dames, 
To  hear  the  name  of  Richmond — of  Richmond  on  the 

James. 

LOUISA'ILLB,  Kv  ,  July,  1862. 


180  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


MISSING. 

• 
In  the  cool  sweet  hush  of  a  wooded  nook, 

Where  the  May  buds  sprinkle  the  green  old  sward, 
And  the  winds,  and  the  birds,  and  the  Hmpid  brook, 

Murmur  their  dreams  with  a  drowsy  sound ; 
Who  lies  so  still  in  the  plushy  moss, 

With  his  pale  cheek  pressed  on  a  breezy  pillow, 
Couched  where  the  light  and  the  shadows  cross 

Thro'  the  flickering  fringe  of   the  willow, 

Who  lies,  alas  ! 
So  still,  so  chill,  in  the  whispering  grass  ? 

A  soldier  clad  in  the  zouave  dress, 

A  bright-haired  man,  with  his  lips  apart, 
One  hand  thrown  up  o'er  his  frank,  dead  face, 

And  the  other  clutching  his  pulseless  heart, 
Lies  here  in  the  shadows,  cool  and  dim, 

His  musket  swept  by  a  trailing  bough  ; 
With  a  careless  grace  in  his  quiet  limbs, 

And  a  wound  on  his  manly  brow  ; 

A  wound,  alas  ! 
Whence  the  warm  blood  drips  on  the  quiet  grass. 

The  violets  peer  from  £heir  dusky  beds, 

With  a  tearful  dew  in  their  great  pure  eyes, 

The  lilies  quiver  their  shining  heads, 
Their  pale  lips  full  of  sad  surprise  ; 


OF    THE     WAR.  181 

And  the  lizard  darts  thro'  the  glistening  fern — 
And  the  squirrel  rustles  the  branches  hoary  ; 

Strange  birds  fly  out  with  a  cry,  to  bathe 
Their  wings   in   the   sunset  glory, 
While  the   shadows  pass 

O'er  the   quiet  face  and  the   dewy  grass. 

God  pity  the   bride  who   awaits  at  home 

With  her  lily  cheeks,  and  her  violet  eyes, 
Dreaming  the  sweet   old   dream   of  love, 

While   her  lover  is   walking  in  Paradise  ; 
God  strengthen   her   heart   as   the   days   go   by, 

And  the  long,   drear  nights  of  her  vigil  follow, 
Nor  bird,   nor  moon,   nor  whispering  wind 

May  breathe   the  tale   of  the  hollow  ; 

Alas  !    alas  ! 
The  secret  is  safe  with  the  woodland  grass. 


10 


182  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


THE   DYING   SOLDIER. 

Lay  him  down  gently  where  shadows  lie  still 
And  cool,  by  the   side  of  the  bright  mountain  rill, 
Where  spreads  the  soft  grass  its  velvety  sheen, 
A  welcoming  couch  for  repose  so  serene  ; 
Where  opening  flowers  their  aroma  breathe 
From  clustering  tendrils  that  lovingly  wreathe, 
And  quivering  leaves  their  murmurous  song 
In  whispers  are  chanting  the  bright  summer  long — 
There  lay  the  young  hero.      See,  from  his  side 
Flows  swiftly  the  current  whose  dark  pulsing  tide 
Is  bearing  away  the  bright  sands  of   life, 
And  closing  forever  this  wild  dream  of   strife. 
Feebly  uncloses  the  fast  dimming  eye, 
Once  bright  as  the  jewels  that  light  up  the  sky  ; 
A  moment  he  looks   on  the    blue   arched  dome, 
Then  whispers  in   anguish,    "  Oh  take — take  me  home  ! 
But  no  !    far  away  o'er  mountain  and  fen 
Lies  the  home   that  I  never  shall  enter  again  ; 
Where  loving  ones  wait  to  welcome  in  joy 
Back  to  its  sun-light  their  own  soldier  boy. 
Father,  when  proudly  you  gave  up  your   child, 
And  crushed  back  the  tears  while  your  lip  sadly  smiled, 
How  vague  was  the  thought  that  we  nevermore 
Should  meet  till  we   stood  on   eternity's  shore  ! 
And,  mother,  again  I  feel  thy  hot  tears 
Rain  on  my  cheek.     Not  the  mildew  of  years, 


OF    THE     WAR.  183 

Nor  shadows  of  death  can  tarnish  the  bliss, 

The  blessing  you  gave  in  that  last  holy  kiss. 

Oh  !    darkly  shall  gather  clouds  o'er  the   hearth 

That  echoed  once  gaily  with  music  and  mirth. 

Oh,  God  !    may  Thy  spirit  be   there  to  sustain, 

"When  record  shall  mingle  my  name  with  the  slain. 

And  one,  too,  whose   fair  cheek  whiter  still  grew 

As  I  pressed  on  her  lip  my  last  sad  adieu  ! 

"Will  she  soon  forget?"      Then,   raising   his  hand, 

He  lovingly  gazed  on  the  small  golden  band 

That  circled  his  finger — while  over  his  face 

The  gray  shadows  of   death  seemed  stealing  apace. 

"  Dear  comrades,  farewell !    my  battles  are  o'er, 

Together  in  conflict  we'll  rally  no  more  ; 

'Tis  bitter  to  die  ere  my  country  is  free  ; 

But  painted  in  glory  her  future  I  see  ; 

Farewell !    life  is  o'er,  earth  fades  from  my  sight, 

Around  me  is  closing  death's  long,  dreamless  night." 

Then,  softly  as  star-light  melts  into  day, 

On  pinions  of   angels  his  soul  passed  away. 

Those  strong  men  are  bowed — in  anguish  they  weep 

O'er  the  dead,  still  so  fair  in  death's  quiet  sleep. 

Then,   parting  the  flowers,   they  laid  him  to  rest, 

And  heaped  the   green   sod   o'er   the   young   martyr's 

breast. 

Weep,  heart  of  the   South — weep,   maiden  and  sire,' 
Wreathe  darkly  with  cypress  love's  bright  mystic  lyre, 
Weep  for   the  heroes,  so   brave   and   so  true, 
Who  nobly  have  yielded  their  life-blood  for  you. 


184  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


READING   THE   LIST. 

"Is  there   any   news   of  the   war?"    she   said, 
"  Only   a  list  of  the  wounded   and   dead," 

Was   the   man's  reply, 

Without   lifting  his   eye 

To   the   face   of   the   woman   standing  by. 
"  'Tis  the   very   thing   I   want,"    she   said  ; 
"  Read  me  a  list   of  the  wounded  and   dead." 

He  read  the   list — 'twas  a  sad   array 
Of  the  wounded   and  killed  in   the   fatal  fray  ; 
In  the '  very  midst  was  a  pause   to   tell 
That  his   comrades  asked,    "Who  is  he,  pray?" 
"  The   only   son   of   the  Widow   Gray," 

Was  the  proud  reply 

Of  his  Captain   nigh. 
What  ails  the  woman   standing  near  ? 
Her  face  has  the  ashen  hue   of  fear  ! 

"  Well,   well,   read   on  ;    is  he  wounded  ?    quick  ! 
Oh,   God!    but  my  heart  is  sorrow  sick!" 

"Is  he  wounded?"       "No!    he  fell,   they  say, 
Killed   outright   on  that  fatal   day!" 
But  see,   the  woman  has  swooned  away  ! 

Sadly  she  opened  her  eyes  to  the  light ; 
Slowly  recalled  the  events  of  the  fight ; 
Faintly  she  murmured,  "  Killed  outright ! 


Of     THE     WAR.  185 

It  has  cost  me  the  life  of  my  only  son, 

But  the  battle  is  fought  and  the  victory  won  ; 

The  will  of  the  Lord,  let  it  be  done!" 

God  pity  the   cheerless  Widow  Gray, 
And  send  from  the  halls  of   Eternal  Day 
The  light  of   His  peace  to  illumine  her  way  ! 


THE   LONELY   GRAVE. 

BY    MRS.    C.    A.    BALL. 

In  a  sheltered  nook   on  Potomac's  shore, 
"Where  the   earth  is  crimsoned  with   Southern-gore, 
Sparkles  and  bubbles  a  little  spring, 
Which  never  ceases  its  lay  to   sing 

Over  a  lonely  grave. 

'Tis  a  spot  that  was  made  for  peace  and  rest, 
Where  Nature  in  richest  robes  is  dressed, 
Where   the  birds  confidingly  build  their  nests, 

And  the  weeping  willows  wave. 

Many  a  wounded  Southern  brave 

Has  dragged  himself   here  his  brow  to  lave, 

And  to  drink  of   the  waters  clear  and  bright, 

Which  flashed  and  glanced  in  the  moon's  soft  light, 

Unheeding  his  anguished  moan. 
And  the  carpet  of  green  around  it  spread, 


186  SOUTHERN    P  OEMS 

Has  pillowed  full  many  a  weary  head  ; 
And  many  a  soul  from  that  grassy  bed 
Has  passed  to  the  dark  unknown. 

Yet  only  one  hillock,  mossy  and  green, 

By  that  joyous  dancing  spring  is  seen, 

Where  the  sighing  winds  wake  a  mournful  wail, 

And  the  ringdove  moans  through  the  evening  gale, 

And  the  firs  their  tall  heads  rear. 
Of  the  countless  hosts  who  in  battle  fell, 
Or  of  those  whose  death-hour  none  can  tell, 
"Whose  souls  passed  out  from  this  shaded  dell, 

But  one  lies  buried  here. 

And  wrho  was  he  ?    a  brave  young  boy, 
Of  his  Southern  home  the  pride  and  joy ; 
The  pet  and  darling  of  every  heart, 
That  in  his  bright  life  had  shared  a  part, 

But  seventeen  summers  old. 
Oh  !    what  a  terrible  grief  was  theirs, 
As  back  in  their  souls  they  crushed  their  fears, 
And  sent  him  forth  with  prayers  and  tears, 

From  the  parental  fold. 

Precious  as  was  the  boy  to  all, 

They  gave  •  him  up  at  his  country's  call. 

Honor  to  him  was  dearer  than  life, 

And  he  panted  to  enter  the  field  of  strife, 

And  shine  on  the  roll  of  fame. 
With  a   crown  of   blessing  on  his  head, 
He  on  to  the  field  of  glory  sped, 


OF    THE     WAR.  187 

The   blood   of  his  pure   young  heart  to   shed, 
And  to  win  himself  a  name. 

Bravely  he  bore  him  in  the  fray, 
And  wonder-struck  were   our  boys  in   gray, 
To  see  the  youth  with  flashing  eye, 
Press  on  while  shouting  the  battle-cry, 

To   the  thickest   of  the  fight. 
His   dauntless  mien,   his  bearing  bold, 
His  face   of  rare   and  beauteous  mould, 
His  head  with  its  clustering  waves  of   gold, 

Seemed  filling  the   field  with  light. 

O'er  the  scene   of  blood  came  a  joyous   cry, 
The   enemy  falter — they  fly,  they  fly  ! 
And  as  the  smoke   of  battle   rose, 
In   circling  wreaths  above   their  foes, 

They   were  seen   from  the  field  to  run. 
The   gallant  boy,   his  proud  head  raised, 
"While   every  feature  with  triumph  blazed, 
And  now  he   cried,  May  our  God  be  praised 

For  the  victory  we   have  won. 

With  kindling  cheek  and  glistening  eye, 
Aye   this  he  said,   were   a  time  to   die  ! 
The  words  from  his  lips  had  barely  passed, 
When  a  rushing  sound   came   on  the   blast, 

And  the   boy   fell   on  the  plain. 
'Twas  a  bullet  that  whistling  through  the  air, 
With  pitiless  blow  struck   the  temple  fair, 
Eight  in  the  waves  of  his  golden  hair — 

He  never  rose  again. 


188  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Rude   men   shed  tears  o'er   that  noble  boy, 
So   suddenly  called  in   his   hour  of  joy, 
When   closed  had  seemed   the   murderous  strife, 
And  saved  through  all  that  bright  young  life, 

To  shine  on   glory's  roll. 
They  bore   him  away  to  the   shaded   dell, 
And  laid  him  to  rest  in  his  narrow  cell, 
Where  the  mourning  pines  sighed  out  a  knell 

For  the  departed  soul. 

It  was  meet,   they  thought,   that  one   so  fair 
Should   be   laid  in   that  spot   of   beauty  rare, 
Where  the   birds  might  warble   o'er  his  grave, 
And  the  foliage  green  above   him  wave, 

With  the   bright  spring   singing  near. 
And  this  is  the  way  with  all  who  fell, 
Or   of  those  whose   death-hour  none   can  tell, 
Whose  souls  passed   out  from  this  shaded  dell, 

But  one  lies  buried  here. 

CHARLESTON,  June  7. 


OF    THE     WAR.  189 


THE   JACKET   OF   GRAY— TO   THOSE  WHO 
WORE   IT. 

BY    MRS.    C.    A.    BALL. 

Fold  it  up   carefully,  lay  it  aside, 
Tenderly  touch  it,  look   on   it  with  pride, 
For  dear  must  it  be  to  our  hearts   evermore, 
The  jacket  of  gray  our   loved  soldier  boy  wore. 

Can  we   ever   forget  when    he  joined  the   brave  band, 
Who  rose   in   defense  of   dear   Southern  land  ; 
And  in   his  bright  youth   hurried  on   to  the  fray, 
How  proudly  he   donn'd  it,  the  jacket  of  gray  ! 

His  fond  mother  blessed  him  and  looked  up  above, 
Commending  to  Heaven   the  child  of   her  love, 
What  anguish  was  hers,  mortal  tongue  may  not  say, 
When  he  passed  from  her  sight  in  the  jacket  of  gray. 

But  her  country  had  called  him,  she  would  not  repine, 
Tho'   costly  the   sacrifice   placed   on   its  shrine  ; 
Her  heart's  dearest  hopes  on  its  altar  she   lay, 
When  she  sent  out  her  boy,  in   his  jacket  of   gray  ! 

Months  passed,  and  War's  thunders  rolled  over  the  land, 
Unsheathed  was  the  sword  and  lighted  the   brand  ; 
We  heard  in  the   distance  the  noise   of  the  fray, 
And  prayed  for  our  boy,  in  the  jacket  of  gray. 
10* 


190  .  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Ah !  vain  all, — all  vain  were  our  prayers  and  our  tears, 
The  glad  shout  of  victory  rang  in   our  ears  ; 
But  our  treasured  one  on  the  cold  battle-field  lay, 
While  the  life  blood  oozed  out  on  the  jacket  of  gray. 

Fold  it  up  carefully,  lay  it  aside, 
Tenderly  touch  it,   look  on  it  with   pride  ; 
For   dear  must  it  be  to  our  hearts   evermore, 
The  jacket  of  gray  our  loved  soldier  boy  wore. 

His  young  comrades  found  him  and  tenderly  bore 
His  cold  lifeless  form  to  his  home  by  the  shore  ; 
Oh  !    dark   were   our  hearts   on   that  terrible   day 
When  we  saw  our  dead  boy  in  the  jacket  of  gray. 

Ah  !  spotted,  and  tattered,  and  stained  now  with  gore, 
Was  the  garment  which  once  he   so  gracefully  wore  ; 
We  bitterly  wept  as  we   took   it  away, 
And  replaced  with   death's  white  robes  the  jacket  of 
gray.   ' 

We  laid  him  to  rest  in   his  cold  narrow   bed, 
And  graved  on  the  marble  we   placed   o'er  his  head, 
As  the  proudest  of  tributes  our  sad  hearts  could  pay, 
"  He  never  disgraced  the  dear  jacket  of  gray." 

Then  fold  it  up  carefully,  lay  it  aside, 
Tenderly  touch  it,  look  on  it  with  pride  ; 
For  dear  must  it  be  to  our  hearts  evermore, 
The  jacket  of  gray  our  loved  soldier  boy  wore. 


OF    THE     WAR.  191 


"YOU'LL   TELL   HER,   WON'T  YOU?" 

"Another  soldier,  shot  through  the  lungs,  clasped  a  locket  to  his 
breast  and  moved  his  lips  till  I  put  down  my  ear  and  listened  for 
his  last  bieatti — 'You'll  tell  her,  won't  YOU?'  Tell  whom  or 
what,  I  could  not  ask  ;  but  that  locket  was  the  picture  of  one 
who  might  be  wife,  sweetheart  or  sister." — Army  Letter,  1862. 

You'll  tell  her,   won't  you  ?      Say  to  her   I   died 
As  a  brave  soldier  should — true  to  the   last ; 

She'll  bear  it  better,   if   a  thought   of  pride 
Comes  in  to   stay   her,   the  first  shock  o'erpast ! 

You'll  tell  her,   won't  you  ?      Show  her  how   I  lay 
Pressing  the  pictured  lips   I  loved  so  well, 

And  how  my  last  thoughts  floated  far  away 
To  home   and  her,   with  love   I   could  not  tell. 

You'll  tell  her,  won't  you  ?    not  how  hard  it  was 
To   give   up   life — life  for   her   sake   so  dear, 

Nay,   nay,   not  so  !      Say   'twas  a  noble   cause, 
And  I   died  for  it  without  a  tear. 

You'll  tell  her,  won't  you  ?  She'll  be  glad  to  know 
Her  soldier  stood  undaunted,  true  as  steel, 

His  heart  with  her,   his  bosom  to  the   foe, 

When  struck  the  blow  no  human  power  could  heal. 


192  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

You'll  tell  her,  won't  you  ?     Say,  too,  we  shall  meet 
In  God's  hereafter,  where  our  love  shall  grow 

More  holy  for  this  parting,  and  more  sweet, 
And  cleansed  from  every  stain  it  knew  below. 


The  following  exquisite  little  poem  was  written  by  Miss  Marie 
Lacoste,  of  Savannah,  Ga.,  and  originally  published,  we 
think,  in  the  Sou'Jicrn  Churchman.  It  will  commend  itself  by 
its  touching  pathos  to  all  readers.  The  incident  it  commemorates 
was,  unfortunately,  but  too  common  in  both  armies. 

Into   a  ward   of  the   whitewashed  walls 

Where  the   dead  and  the  dying  lay — 
Wounded  by  bayonets,   shells  and  balls — 

Somebody's  darling  was  borne  one   day. 
Somebody's  darling  !    so  young  and  so  brave, 

Wearing  still   on  his  pale  sweet   face — 
Soon  to  be  hid  by  the   dust  of  the  grave — 

The  lingering  light  of  his  boyhood's  grace. 

Matted  and  damp  are  the  curls  of  gold, 
Kissing  the  snow  of  that  fair  young  brow, 

Pale  are  the  lips  of  delicate  mould — 
Somebody's  darling  is  dying   now. 

Back  from  the  beautiful,   blue- veined  face 
Brush   every  wandering,   silken  thread, 


OF    THE     WAR.  193 

Cross  his  hands  as  a  sign  of  grace — 
Somebody's  darling  is  still  and  dead  ! 

Kiss  him  once  for  somebody  s  sake  ; 

Murmur  a  prayer,   soft  and  low, 
One  bright  curl  from  the   cluster  take — 

They  were  somebody's   pride  you  know. 
Somebody's  hand   hath  rested  there  ; 

Was  it  a  mother's  soft  and  white  ? 
And  have  the  lips  of  a  sister  fair 

Been  baptized  in  those  waves  of  light  ? 

God  knows  best.      He  was  somebody's  love  ; 

Somebody's  heart   enshrined  him  there  ; 
Somebody  wafted  his  name  above, 

Night  and  morn   on  the   wings   of  prayer. 
Somebody  wept  when  he  marched  away, 

Looking  so  handsome,   brave  and  grand  ; 
Somebody's  kiss   on   his   forehead  lay, 

Somebody  clung  to   his  parting  hand — 

Somebody's  watching  and  waiting  for  him, 

Yearning  to  hold  him  again  to  her  heart : 
There  he   lies — with  the  blue   eyes   dim, 

And  smiling,   child-like  lips  apart. 
Tenderly  bury  the  fair  young  dead, 

Pausing  to   drop   on  his  grave  a  tear, 
Carve   on  the  wooden  slab  at  his  head, 

u /Somebody's  darling  lies  buried  here  T 


194  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


THE    REAR-GUARD   OF   THE   ARMY. 

BY    IRIS. 

The   hills   were   touched   with    sunset    tints,    the    sky 

was  painted  bright, 
When  the  rear-guard  of  our  army  came  marching  into 

sight. 

All  the  Army  of  Potomac  had  passed  us  by  but  these, 
The  faint  sound  of  their  drum  beat  was  dying  on  the 

breeze. 
How  Manassas  was  deserted,  not  a  Southron  left,  not 

one  ! 
Save  the  still  forms  in  silent  graves,  whose  marchings 

then  were  done ; 
The   pine   huts   with   their    roofing    green    are    empty, 

quiet,  sad, 
They   that    all   winter    echoed   with    voices    gay   and 


Manassas !    proud  Manassas  !    and   near   by   her  battle 

plain  ! 
Shall    she    ne'er   hear    the    Southern    shout    of  victory 

again  ? 
Shall  the  foe  triumphant  tread  the  soil  where  patriot's 

blood  was  shed, 
Where    many    a    noble    hero    sleeps,    where    Bee    and 

Bartow  bled? 
We  fain  would  see  the  rear-guard,  but  our  tears  were 

flowing  still ; 


OF    THE     WAR.  195 

But  hush  they  give  the  word  to  "Halt" — they  pause 

upon  the  hill, 
They  wave  the  flag  above  them,  but  its  folds  will  droop 

to  earth, 

They  shout,  but,  ah  !  it  is  no  shout  of  victory  or  mirth. 
Once  more,  along  our  vales  and  hills  the  words  of  Dixie 

ring, 
But,  alas  !  full  mournfully  it  grates  upon  both  ear  and 

mind, 
For   the    Southern    army   all  have   gone,    and   we    are 

left  behind! 

Left  to  the  foeman's  mercy,  left  to  their  cruel  hate, 
Left  helpless  babes  and  women  to  such  a  dreary  fate ! 
Cease  your  triumphal  music,  play  a  dirge  for  those 

you  leave, 
For  those  who  in   this  parting   hour    have    naught   to 

do  but  grieve  ; 

And  breathe    a    dirge   in   plaintive    tone  for  fair  Vir 
ginia's  land, 
That  soon  will  feel  a  tyrant-rule  -with  bold  and  heavy 

hand. 
Keep  back  your  stirring  anthem  till  you  have  passed 

us  by, 
We  have  no   cheer  or  smile  to  give,  only  a  tear  and 

sigh. 
Altho'   we  had  forgotten,   we  send    our   prayers    with 

you — 
Alas  for  woman  !    this  is  all   now  left  for  her  to   do. 

CHARLESTOWN,  VA. 


196  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


HEART  VICTORIES. 
BY  A  SOLDIER'S  WIFE. 

There's  not  a  stately  hall, 

There's  not  a  cottage  fair, 
That  proudly  stands  on   Southern  soil, 

Or  softly   nestles  there, 
But  in  its  peaceful  walls 

With  wealth  or  comfort  blessed, 
A   stormy  battle  fierce   hath  raged 

In  gentle  woman's  breast. 

There   Love,   the  true,   the   brave, 

The   beautiful,   the  strong, 
Wrestles  with  Duty,   gaunt  and  stern, 

Wrestles  and  struggles  long. 
He   falls — no  more  again 

His  giant  foe  to  meet, 
Bleeding  at  every   opening  vein, 

Love  falls  at  Duty's  feet. 

0  !    Daughter  of  the  South  ! 

No  victor's  crown   be  thine, 
Not  thine,   upon  the  tented  field 

In  martial  pomp  to  shine  ; 
But  with  unfaltering  trust 

In   Him  who  rules  on  high, 


OF    THE     WAR.  197 

To  deck  thy  loved  ones  for  the  fray, 
And  send  them  forth  to   die. 

With  wildly  throbbing  heart — 

With  faint  and  trembling  breath, 
The  maiden   speeds  her  lover  on  . 

To  victory  or  death  ; 
Forth  from  caressing  arms, 

The  mother  sends  her  son, 
And  bids  him  nobly  battle   on, 

Till  the  last  field  is  won. 

While  she,   the  tried,   the   true, 

The  loving  wife   of  years, 
Chokes  down  the  rising  agony, 

Drives  back  the  starting  tears ; 
"  I  yield  thee  up,"  she   cries, 

In  the  country's  cause  to  fight, 
Strike   for  our  own,   our  children's  home, 

And  God  defend  the  right." 

0,  Daughter  of  the  South! 

When   our  fair  land  is  free, 
When  peace  her  lovely  mantle  throws 

Softly  o'er  land  and  sea, 
History  shall  tell  how  thou 

Hast   nobly   borne   thy  part, 
And  won  the  proudest  triumph  yet — 

The  victory  of  the  heart. 


198  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


ADDRESS    TO    THE    EXCHANGED    PRISONERS. 

On  the  31st  of  July,  1862,  all  the  prisoners  of  war  in  Fort  War 
ren  (about  230  soldiers  of  the  Confederate  army)  embarked  for 
Fortress  Monroe,  to  be  exchanged.  They  left  in  Fort  Warren 
14  gentlemen  who  were  imprisoned  under  the  designation  of 
"political  prisoners."  These  were  all  Marylanders  by  birth, 
all  but  one  (Mr.  Winder)  were  residents  in  that  State  when 
arrested.  On  their  behalf  the  following  lines  were  addressed 
to  their  departing  friends. 

BY     S.      T.      WALLIS. 


The  anchors  are  weighed,  and  the  gates  of  your  prison 
Fall  wide,  as  your  ship  gives  her  prow  to  the  foam, 

And  a  few  hurried  hours,  shall  return  you  exulting, 
"Where  the  flag  you  have  fought  for  floats  over  your 
home. 

God  send  that  not  long  shall  its  folds  be  uplifted 
O'er  fields  dark  and  sad  with  the  trail  of  the  fight ; 

God  give  it  the  triumph  He  always  hath  given, 
Or  sooner  or  later  to  valor  and  right ! 

But  if  peace  may  not  yet  wrreathe  your  homes  with 

her  olive, 
And  new  victims  are  still  round  the  altar  to  bleed, 


OF    THE     WAR.  199 

God  shield  you  amid  the  red  bolts  of  the  battle, 
God  give  stout  hearts  for  high  thought  and   brave 
deed  ! 

No  need  we  should  bid  you  go  strike  for  your  freedom, 
You  have  stricken  like  men  for  its  blessings  before, 

And  your  homes  and  your  loved  ones,  your  wrongs  and 

your  manhood, 
Will  nerve  you  to  fight  the  good  fight  o'er  and  o'er. 

But  will  you  not  think,  as  you  wave  your  glad  banners, 
How  the  flag  of  old  Maryland  trodden  in  shame, 

Lies  sullied  and  torn  in  the  dust  of  her  highways  ? 
And  will  ye  not  strike  a  fresh  blow  in  her  name  ? 

Her  mothers  have  sent  their  first  born  to  be  with  you, 

Wherever  with  blood  there  are  fields  to  be  won, 
Her  daughters  have  wept  for  you,  clad  you,  and  nursed 

you, 

Their  hopes  and  their  vows,  and  their  smiles  are  your 
own. 

Let  her  cause  be  your  cause,  and  whenever  the  war-cry 
Bids  you  rush  to  the  field,  oh  !  remember  her  too ! 

And  when  freedom  and  peace  shall  be  blended  in  glory 
Oh  !  count  it  your  shame,  if  she  be  not  with  you ! 

And  if  in  the  hour  when  pride,   honor,  and  duty, 
Shall  stir  every  throb  in  the  hearts  of  brave  men, 

The  wrongs  of  the  helpless  can  quicken  such  pulses, 
Let  the  captives  at  Warren  give  flame  to  them  then. 


200  SOUTHERN   POEMS 


FIAT   JUSTITIA. 

DEDICATED     TO     THE     MARYLAND     PRISONERS     AT     FORT     WARRED. 
BY     A     LADY     OF     BALTIMORE. 

There  is  no  day  however  darkly  clouded, 

But  hath  a  brighter  sun, 
There  is  no  truth  however  falsely  shrouded, 

But  hath  its  martyrs  won. 
No  grief  that  bringeth  not  some   consolation, 

When  the  first   pang  is  past, 
No  loss  without  its  hidden  compensation, 

To  heal  or  soothe  at  last. 
So  in  this  hour,  when  even  justice  slumbers, 

Our  courage  shall  not  fail ; 
Might  is  not  right,  and  strength  lies  not  in  numbers, 

Nor  will  the  strong  prevail. 
The  few,  alas,  must  suffer  for  the  many, 

Oh  brave   and  chosen  few  ! 
The  loss  of  freedom  always  sad  to  any, 

Is  still  more   sad  for  you, 
Whose  native  State  is  held  in  base  subjection, 

A   camp   for  armed  men, 
Whose  native   city  waits  in  proud  dejection 

Her   liberty   again ! 
Be  yours  the  place  of  honor,  yours  the  crowning, 

Yours  is  the  leader's  right, 


OF    THE     WAR.  201 

Who,   where   those    wave-washed    dungeon    walls   are 
frowning, 

Have  fought  the   noblest  fight. 
There,  with  the    shield  the   Constitution  granted, 

WALLIS  defends  our  cause ; 
And  good  "  King  GEORGE,"  the  fearless  and  undaunted," 

Resists  a  tyrant's  laws. 
There  SCOTT  has  shown  us  how  with  faith  unswerving 

E'en  bondage    may   be   borne, 
How   Roman  firmness,   patient  in   deserving, 

Can   never   be   uptorn  ! 
There,  round  the  temples  of  another   HOWARD, 

The  "  Old  Line  "   laurels  bloom, 
There,  BROWN,  beneath  whose  rule  all  treason  cowered, 

Receives  a  traitor's  doom. 
There,  THOMAS,   JORDAN,   and  a  host  of  heroes, 

Do   honor  to   their   name, 
"While  perjured  Steward,   last  and  worst  of  Nero's, 

Sets  all  the   world   aflame  ! 
Dear  Maryland !  thy  children   will  not  shame  thee, 

Nor  aid  thy  feet  to   fall, 
Let  those  who  choose  to  question,  dare  to  blame  thee, 

Fort  Warren  answers   all  ! 

1862. 


202  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  FORT  WARREN. 


BY    G.     W.    B. 


Wild  flowers   gathered  from  the  hills, 
Sunlit  clouds  on   evening  sky, 

Shadows  dancing  o'er  the  rills, 
Brief  as  these  our  pleasures  die. 

Dews  that  fall  from  pitying  skies, 
Sparkle  in  the  morning  ray, 

Tears  that  dim  the  watcher's  eye 
Change  to  smiles  with  dawning  day. 

Good  and  evil  mingle  so 

In  the   chequered  web  of  life, 

Whether  best  we   do  not  know, 
Joy  or  sorrow,  peace  or  strife. 

Even  may  these  prison  walls, 
Preach  a  lesson  large  and  free, 

Vainly  taught  in  stoic  halls, 
Better  sung  by  poesy. 

Calmly  moves  the  steadfast  soul, 
On  its  Heaven  appointed  way, 

Brave  and  strong  in  self-control, 
Rivet  fetters  as  you  may. 


OF    THE     WAR.  203 

Doing  battle,   like  a  knight 

'Gainst  a  host  in  stricken  field, 
Trebly  armed  by  sense  of  right, 

Christ's  red  cross  upon  his  shield. 

Bright  flowers  on  the  ramparts  bloom, 

By  the  cannon  frowning  there, 
Breathing  all  around  perfume, 

While  war's  drum-beat  rends  the  air.    . 

Lives  of  captives  have  shed  fragrance 
Sweet  as  breath  of  summer  flowers, 

And  their  deeds  a  holy  radiance, 
Such  as  gild  these   evening  hours. 

FORT  WAREEN,  Sept.  3,  1862. 


204  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


THE   CAPTAIN'S   STORY. 

We  rested  on  the  battle-field, 

The  busy   day  was  o'er, 
Hushed  was  the  angry  clash  of  arms, 

The   cannon's  frightful   roar  ; 
And  twilight  settled  on  the  scene 

Of   carnage   and   of   strife, 
Ah  !  it  was  sad  to  gaze  upon 

The  fearful  loss  of   life. 

Beneath  a  tent  of  cedar  boughs, 

By  soft  night  breezes  fann'd, 
One   of  our  braves  lay  dying  now, 

A  youth  from  Maryland. 
Ah  !  well  we  loved  the  fearless  boy  ! 

When   dangers  round  him  pressed, 
Through  many  an   awful   conflict 

He  nobly  stood  the  test. 

Now,   one  by   one  his  comrades  all 

Had  gathered  round  his  bed, 
And  when  each  one  had  press'd  his  hand. 

He   smiled,   and  then  he   said  : 
"  Ah  !   boys  you'll  take  a  message 

When   I  shall  be  no  more, 
To   friends  in  dear  old  Maryland, 

On  fair   PatuxenVs  shore." 


OF    THE     WAR.  205 

"  Tell  my  father  that  I  fell 

When  victory  was  won, 
But  tell  him  not  too  hastily 

The  tidings  of  his  son. 
And  comrades,   you  will  say   to  him 

I   drew  no   coward's  breath, 
My  last  cry  on  the  battle-field, 

Was    LIBERTY    Or    DEATH. 

"  Oh !  to  my  mother  gently  tell 

The  news — when   I  am  dead, 
And  place  her  letters  on  my  breast, 

Her   Bible  at  my  head.* 
Now  boys,  won't  some  of  you  repeat 

The  prayer  she   sent  to  me — 
When   I  was  but  a  little  boy, 

I  learned  it  at  her  knee." 

The  tears  coursed  down  our  bronzed  cheeks, 

We  knelt  at  his  request, 
And  when  we  rose  to  gaze   on   him 

The  spirit  was  at  rest. 
We  placed  the  letters  on  his  breast, 

The  Bible   at  his  head, 
And  we  wrapped  him  in  our  banner — 

'Twas  the  "Red,  the  White,  the  Red." 


11 


206  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


THE   DEBT. 

Remember  men   of  Maryland, 

You  have   a  debt  to  pay, 
A   debt  which  years  of  patience 

Will  never  wear  away  ; 
Which  must  be  paid  at  last,  although 

Our  dearest  blood  it  cost, 
A  debt  which  shall  be  paid  unto 

The  very,  uttermost. 

We  owe  for  confidence  betrayed 

By  those  we  trusted  best, 
The  sword  we  gave  them  to  defend, 

They  turned  against  our  breast  ; 
For  spies  that  noted  down  our  words, 

The  while  they  shared  our  bread, 
For  hounds  that  even  dared  disturb 

The  quiet  of  the  dead. 

We  owe  for  all  the  love  they  hid, 

The  wolfish  hate  they  showed, 
For  all  those  glittering  bayonets 

That  meet  us  on  the  road. 
For  black  suspicion,  deadlier  far 

Than  flash  of  Northern  swords, 
For  treason  threatened  at  our  hearths, 

And  poison  at  our  boards. 


OF    THE     WAR.  207 

For  many  a  deed  of  darkness  done 

Beneath  the  "  stripes  and  stars," 
For  women  outraged  in  their  homes, 

And  fired  on  in  the  cars. 
For  those  black  tiers  of   cannon,  trained 

To  bear  on  Baltimore  ; 
We  owe  for  friends  in  prison  kept, 

And  Davis*  in  his  gore. 

Wrongs  such  as  these,  aye  more  than  these, 

Make  up  our  fearful  debt, 
And  many  a  gallant  heart  has  sworn 

It  shall  be  settled  yet. 
Each  moment  near  and  nearer  brings, 

That  solemn  reckoning  day, 
And  when  it  comes — and  when  it  comes, 

Remember — and  repay  ! 


Murdered  in  the  streets  of  B;iKitnore,  April,  1S61,  by  Massachusetts  soldiers. 


208  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


BUTLER'S   PROCLAMATION. 

"It  is  ordered  that  hereafter  when  any  female  shall,  by  word, 
gesture,  or  movement,  insult  or  show  contempt  for  any  officer  or 
soldier  of  the  United  States,  she  shall  be  regarded  and  held  liable  to 
be  treated  as  a  woman  of  the  town,  plying  her  vocation." 

Butler's   Order  at  New   Orleans. 


BY    PAUL    H.    HAYNE,    OF    SOUTH    CAROLINA. 


Aye  !    drop  the  treacherous  mask  !    throw  by 
The  cloak  which  veiled  thine  instincts  fell, 

Stand  forth  thou  base  incarnate   lie, 
Stamped  with  the  signet  brand  of  hell. 

At  last  we  view  thee  as  thou  art — 

A  trickster  with  a  demon's  heart. 


Off  wTith  disguise  !    no  quarter  now 
To  rebel  honor  !  thou  would'st  strike 

Hot  blushes  up  the  anguished  brow, 
And  murder  fame  and  strength  alike. 

Beware  !    ten  millions  hearts  aflame 

Will  burn  with  hate  thou  canst  not  tame. 


OF    THE     WAR.  209 

know  thee  now  !    we  know  thy  race  ! 

Thy  dreadful  purpose  stands  revealed 
Naked  before  the  nation's  face  ! 

Comrades  !  let  mercy's  fount  be  sealed, 
"While  the  black  banner  courts  the  wind, 
And  cursed  be  he  who  lags  behind ! 


0  !  soldiers,  husbands,  brothers,  sires  ! 

Think  that  each  stalwart  blow  ye  give 
Shall  quench  the  rage  of   lustful  fires, 

And  bid  your  glorious  women  live 
Pure  from  a  wrong  whose  tainted  breath, 
Were  fouler  than  the  foulest  death. 


0  !  soldiers,  lovers,  Christians,  men  ! 

Think  that  each  breeze  that  floats  and  dies 
O'er  the  red  field,  from  mount  or  glen, 

Is  burdened  with  a  maiden's  sighs  ; 
And  each  false  soul  that  turns  to   flee, 
Consigns  his  love  to  infamy  ! 

No  pity  !    let  your  thirsty  brands, 

Drink  their  warm  fill  at  caitiff  veins, 

Dip  deep  in  blood  your  wrathful  hands, 
Nor  pause  to  wipe  those  crimson  stains. 

Slay  !  slay  !  with  ruthless  sword  and  will, 

The  God  of  vengeance  bids  you  "kill!" 


210  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Yes  !    but  there's  one  who  shall  not  die 
In  battle  harness  !    one  for  whom 

Lurks  in   the   darkness  silently 
Another   and   a  sterner  doom  ! 

A  warrior's  end  should   crown  the   brave, 

For  -him,  strong  cord  and  felon  grave  ! 

As  loathsome   charnel  vapors  melt, 

Swept  by  the  rushing  winds  to  nought, 

So  may  this  fiend   of  lust  and  guilt 

Die   like  a   nightmare's  hideous  thought. 

Nought  left  to  mark  the  monster's  name, 

Save — immortality  of  shame  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  211 


THE   GUERRILLAS. 

BY    S.    T.    WALLIS. 

Awake  and  to  horse  !    my  brothers, 

For  the   dawn   is  glimmering  gray, 
And  hark  !    in  the  crackling  brushwood 

There  are   feet  that  tread  this  way  ! 

"Who  cometh?"    "A  friend!"    "What  tidings?" 

"0   God!    I  sicken  to  tell; 
For   the   earth  seems  earth  no  longer, 

And  its  sights  are  sights  of  hell  ! 

"  There's   rapine,   and  fire,  and  slaughter, 
From   the  mountain  down  to  the  shore  ; 

There's  blood  on   the  trampled  harvest, 
And  blood  on  the  homestead  floor  ! 

"  From  the  far-off  conquered  cities  . 

Comes  the  voice   of  a  stifled  wail, 
And  the  shrieks  and  moans  of   the   houseless, 

Ring  out  like  a  dirge  on  the  gale  ! 

"  I've  seen  from  the  smoking  village, 

Our  mothers  and  daughters  fly  ! 
I've  seen  where  the  little  children 

Sank  down  in  the  furrows  to  die  ! 


212  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

"  On  the  banks  of  the  battle-stained  river 
I  stood,  as  the  moonlight  shone-, 

And  it  glared  on  the  face  of  my  brother, 
As  the  sad  wave  swept  him  on  1 

"  Where  my  home  was  glad  are  ashes, 
And  horror  and  shame  had  been  there  ; 

For  I  found  on  the  fallen  lintel, 
This  tress  of  my  wife's  torn  hair  ! 

"  They  are  turning  the  slave   upon  us, 

And  with  more  than  the  fiend's  worst  art, 

Have  uncovered  the  fires  of  the  savage,  . 
That  slept  in  his  untaught  heart ! 

"  The  ties  to  our  hearths  that  bound  him, 
They  have  rent  with  curses  away, 

And  maddened  him  with  their  madness, 
To  be  almost  as  brutal  as   they. 

"With  halter,   and  torch,  arid  Bible, 
And  hymns,  to.  the  sound  of   the   drum, 

They  preach  the  gospel   of  murder, 

And  pray  for  lust's  kingdom  to  come  ! 

"  To   saddle  !    to   saddle  !    my   brothers  ! 

Look  up  to  the  rising  sun,  • 
And  ask  of  the   God  who  shines  there, 

Whether  deeds  like  these  shall  be  done.  . 


OF    THE     WAR.  213 

"  Wherever  the  vandal  cometh, 

Press  home   to  his  heart  with  your  steel, 

And  where'er  at  his   bosom  ye   can  not, 
Like  the   serpent,   go  strike  at  his  heel. 

"  Through  thicket  and  wood  go  hunt  him, 

Creep  up  to  his  camp-fire  side  ! 
And   let  ten   of  his  corpses  blacken 

Where   one   of  our  brothers  hath  died  ! 

"  In   his   fainting,   foot-sere  marches, 

In  his  flight  from  the   stricken  fray, 
In  the   snare   of  the  lonely   ambush, 

The  debts  that  we  owe  him,  pay  ! 

"  In   God's  hand  alone   is  judgment, 

But   He   strikes  with  hands  of  men, 
And   His  blight  would  wither   our  manhood, 

If  we  smote  not  the   smiter  again. 

"  By  the  graves  where  our  fathers  slumber, 
By  the   shrines  where   our  mothers   prayed, 

By  our  homes,   and  hopes,   arid   freedom, 
Let  every  man   swear   on  his  blade — 

"  That  he  will  not  sheath  nor  stay  it, 

Till  from  point  to  heft  it  glow, 
With  the  flush  of  Almighty  vengeance, 

In  the  blood  of  the  felon  foe!" 


11* 


214  SOUTHERN   POEMS 

They  swore  ;  and  the  answering  sunlight, 
Leapt  red  from  their  lifted  swords, 

And  the  hate  in  their  hearts  made  echo 
To  the  wrath  in  their  burning  words  ! 

There's  weeping  in  all  New  England, 
And  by  Schuylkill's  banks  a  knell, 

And  the  widows  there,  and  the  orphans, 
How  the  oath  was  kept  can  tell. 

FORT  WARREN. 


AT   FORT   PILLOW. 

BY    JAMES    R.    RANDALL. 

You  shudder  as  you  think  upon 
The^  carnage  of  the  grim  report — 

The   desolation  when  we  won 
The   inner  trenches  of  the  Fort. 

But  there  are   deeds  you  may  not  know, 
That  scourge  the  pulses  into  strife, 

Dark  memories  of   deathless  woe, 
Pointing  the  bayonet  and  knife. 

The  house  is  ashes  where   I  dwelt, 
Beyond  the  mighty  inland    sea, 

The  tomb-stones  shattered  where  I  knelt 
By  that  old  church  in  Pointe  Coupee. 


OF     THE     WAR.  215 

The  Yankee  fiends  that  came  with  fire, 

Camped  on   the  consecrated  sod, 
And  trampled  in  the   dust  and  mire, 

The  holy  eucharist  of   God  ! 

The  spot  where  darling  mother  sleeps, 
Beneath   the   glimpse   of  yon  sad  moon, 

Is  crushed  with  splintered  marble  heaps, 
To  stall  the  horse   of  some   dragoon  ! 

God  !    when  I  ponder  that  black  day, 

It   drives  my  frantic   spirit  mad, 
I   marched — with   Longstreet — far  away, 

But  since  have  seen  the  ruin   sad. 

The  tears  are  hot  upon  my  face, 

When  thinking  what  black  fate  befell 

The   only   sister  of   our  race — 
A   thing   too  horrible  to  tell. 

They  say,   that  ere  her  senses  fled, 
She,   rescue   of  her  brothers  cried, 

Then   feebly  bowed  her  stricken  head,     . 
Too  pure  to  live  thus — so  she   died. 

Two  of  those  brothers  heard  no  plea, 

With  their  proud  hearts  forever  still- 
John  shrouded   by   the   Tennessee, 
And  Arthur  there  at  Malvern  Hill. 


216  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

But   I  have  heard  it  everywhere 
Vibrating  like  a  passing  knell, 

'<Tis  universal   as  th'e  air,  •• 
And  solemn   as  a  funeral  bell. 

By  scorched  lagoon   or  murky  swamp 

My  wrath  has  known  nor   rest  nor  check, 

I've  slain   the  picket  by  his  camp, 
And  killed  the-  pilot  on  the  deck. 

With   deadly  rifle,   sharpened  brand, 

A  week  ago  upon  my  steed, 
With  Forrest  and  his  warrior  band, 

I  made  the  hell-hounds  writhe  and  bleed. 

* 

You  should  have  seen  our  leader  go 
Upon  the  battle's  burning  marge, 

Swooping  like  falcon   on  the  foe, 

Heading  the  gray  line's  iron  charge  ! 

The  Southern  yell  rang  loud  and  high 
The  moment  that  we  thundered  in, 

Smiting  the   demons  hip  and  thigh, 
Cleaving  them  unto  the  chin. 

My  right  arm  bared  for  fiercer  play, 
The  left  one  held  the  rein  in  slack, 

In  all  the  fury  of  the  fray 

I  sought  the  white  m&n,  not  the  black. 


OF    THE     WAR.  217 

Throbbing  along  the  frenzied  vein 
My  blood  seemed  kindled  into  song, 

The  death-dirge  of  the  sacred  slain, 
The  slogan  of  immortal  wrong. 

It  glared  athwart  the   dripping  glaives, 
It  blazed  in   each  avenging  eye — 

The  thought  of  desecrated  graves, 
And  some  lone  sister's  desperate  cry. 

WILMINGTON,  April  2bth. 


BOMBARDMENT   OF   VICKSBURG. 

DEDICATED    TO    MAJOR-GENERAL'   EARL     VAN    DORN. 

For  sixty  days,   and  longer, 

A   storm  of   shell  and   shot 
Rained  round  as  in   a  flaming  shower, 

But  still  we  faltered  not ! 
11  If  the   noble   city  perish," 

Our  grand  young  leader  said, 
"  Let  the  only  walls  the  foe  shall  scale, 

Be   ramparts  of  the   dead  ! " 

For  sixty  days,  and  longer, 

The   eye  of  heaven  waxed  dim, 

And  e'en  throughout  God's  holy  morn, 
O'er  Christian's  prayer  and  hymn, 


218  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Arose  a  hissing  tumult, 

As  if  the  fiends  of  air, 
Strove  to   engulf  the  voice  of  faith, 

In  the  shrieks   of  their  despair. 

There -was  wailing  in  the  houses, 

There  was  trembling  on  the  marts, 
While  the  tempest  raged  and  thundered, 

'  Mid  the  silent  thrill  of  hearts  ; 
But  the  Lord,  our  shield,  was  with  us, 

And  ere   a  month  had  sped, 
Our  very  women  walked  the   streets 

With  scarce  one  throb  of  dread. 

And  the  little   children  gambolled — 

Their  pure,   bright  faces  raised, 
Just  for  a  wondering  moment 

As  the  huge  bombs  whirled  and  blazed  ; 
Then  turned  with    silvery   laughter, 

To  the  sports  which  children  love, 
Thrice  mailed  in  this  instinctive  thought, 

That  the  good  God  watched  above. 

Yet  the   hailing  bolts  fell   faster, 

From  scores  of  flame-clad  ships, 
And  above   us,   denser,   darker, 

Grew  the  conflict's  wild  eclipse — 
Till   a  solid  cloud  closed  o'er  us, 

Like  a  type  of  gloom  and  ire, 
Whence  shot  a  thousand*  quivering  tongues 

Of  forked  and  vengeful  fire. 


OF    THE     WAR.  219 

But  the  unseen  hand  of  angels, 

These   death-shafts  warned   aside, 
And  the  dove  of  Heavenly  mercy 

Ruled  o'er  the  battle  tide  ; 
In  the  houses  ceased  the  wailing, 

And  through  the  war-scarred  marts, 
The  people   strode  writh  a  step  of   hope, 

To   the  music   in  their  hearts. 

COLUMBIA,  S.  C.,  Aug.  6,  1862. 


GONE   TO   THE   BATTLE-FIELD. 

The  reaper  has  left  the  field, 

The  mower  has  left  the  plain, 
And  the  reaper's  hook   and  the  mower's  scythe, 

Are  changed  to  the  sword  again  ; 
For  the  voice  of   a  hundred  years  ago, 
When  Freedom  struck  her  mightiest  blow, 

Thrills  every  heart  and  brain  ! 

The  wayside  mill  is  still, 

And  the  wheel  drips  all  alone, 
For  the  miller's  brother,  and  son,  and  sire, 

And  the  miller's   self  are   gone  ; 
And  their  wives  and  daughters  tarrying  still, 
"With  smiles  and  tears  about  the  mill, 

Wave,  wave  their  heroes  on  ! 


220  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

The  grain  is  full  and  ripe, 

And  the  harvest  moon  is  nigh, 
But  the  farmer's  son  is  among  the  slain, 

And  the  father  heard  the  cry  ; 
And  his  ancient  eyes  flashed  fires  of   old, 
His  hoary  head  rose  strong  and  bold, 

As  wild  he  hurried  by  ! 

The  corn  is  yet  afield, 

But  many  a  stalk   is  red  ; 
Yet  not  with  the  autumn  tassel  stained, 

But  with  blood  of   heroes  shed. 
And  their  blood  cries   out  from  heaps  of  slain, 
Oh  !    brothers,   leave  the  sheaves   of  grain — 

And  haste   to  avenge  your   dead  ! 

By  every  quiet  farm, 

Whence  father  and  son  had  gone, 
The  fairest  daughters  of  the  land, 

Brave  hearted,  cheered  us  on  ; 
•With  the  tender  smiles  that  shelter   tears, 
And  words  to  thrill  a  soldier's   ears, 

When  bloody  fields  are  won  ! 

Scarcely  the  form  of  man 

Was  seen  on  the  long  highway, 
But  patriots  aged,   with  withered  hands 

Stretched  feebly  up  to  pray  ; 
^.nd  children,  whose  voices  haunt  us   still, 
Gathered  on  every  knoll  and  hill, 

Cheering  us  on  our  way  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  221 

Yonder  with  feeble  limbs, 

A  matron  with  silver  hair, 
Knelt  trembling  down  on  the  soldier's  path, 

And  breathed  to  Heaven  a  prayer  ; 
With  quivering  lips,   with  streaming  eyes, 
"  Oh  !    God,  preserve  these  gallant  boys, 

In  battle  be   Thou  there  !  " 

Oh,   soldiers  !    such  as  these, 

Like  household  memories  come, 
For  a  thousand  prayers  ascend  to-day 

From  those  we   left  at  home  ; 
For  the  red,   red  field  to-night  may  be 
Our  couch,   our  grave — while  victory 

Shall  shout  above  our  tomb  ! 

In   battle's  bloody  hour, 

These  pictures  shall  arise 
Of  mothers,   sisters,  wives  and  homes, 

And  sad  and  streaming  eyes, 
And  every  arm.  shall  stronger  be, 
For  home,  for   God,  for  liberty, 

And  strike  while  Mercy  dies. 


222  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

THE   VIRGINIANS   OF   THE   VALLEY. 

SIC    JUKAT. 

Ticknor  of  Georgia,  the  true  poet,  has  thus  eloquently  eulogized 
in  the  lines  below,  the  noble  qualities  of  the  sons  of  Virginia  : 

The  knightliest  of  the  knightly  race, 

Who,   since  the   days  of  old, 
Have  kept  the  lamps  of   chivalry 

Alight   in  hearts  of  gold — 
The  kindliest  of  the  kindly  band 

Who  rarely  hated  ease, 
Yet  rode  with  Smith  around  the  land 

And  Raleigh  round  the  seas  ! 

Who  climbed  the  blue  Virginia  hills, 

Amid  embattled  foes, 
And  planted  there,  in  valleys  fair, 

The  lily  and  the  rose  ; 
Whose  fragrance  lives  in  many  lands, 

Whose  beauty  stars  the  earth, 
And  lights  the  hearths  of  many  homes, 

With  loveliness  and  worth  ! 

We  thought  they  slept !    these  sons  who  kept 

The  names  of  noble  sires, 
And  slumbered,  while  the  darkness  crept 

Around  their  vigil  fires  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  225 

But  still  the  Golden  Horse-shoe  knights, 

Their  Old  Dominion  keep, 
Whose  foes  have  found  enchanted  ground, 

But  not  a  knight  asleep  ! 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHENANDOAH. 

BY     A     SOLDIER     OF     THE     ARMY     OF     NORTHERN     VIRGINIA. 

The  peace  of  the  valley  is  fled, 

The  calm  of  its  once  happy  bowers 
Is  disturbed  by  the  rude  soldier's  tread, 

While  the  blood  of  its  braves  dyes  the  flowers. 
These  hearts  that  beat  once  but  to  love, 

Now   broken,  forsaken,   and  dead, 
No   time   can  their  sorrows  remove, 

The  peace  of  the  Valley  is  fled  ! 

The  vine  round  the  cottage  door  clings, 

Its   tendrils  neglected  and  torn, 
By  the  door  may  the  widow  long  wait 

For  a  form  that  shall  never  return. 
He  lies  far  away  'mid  the  slain, 

His  broken  shield  pillows  his  head, 
And  the  loved  ones  await  him  in  vain — 

The   soldier  of  freedom  is  dead  ! 


224  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


THE   REAPER 

The  apples  are  ripe  in  the  orchard, 
The  work   of  the  reaper's  begun, 

And  the  golden  woodlands  redden 
In  the  rays   of    the   dying  sun. 

At  the   cottage   door,   the  grandsire 

Sits  pale  in  his   easy  chair, 
While  the   gentle  wind  at  twilight 

Sports  with  his   silvery  hair. 

A  maiden   is  kneeling  beside  him, 
Her  fair  young  head  is  prest, 

In  the  first  wild  passion  of  sorrow, 
Against  his  aged  breast ! 

And  far  from   over  the   distance 

The  faltering  echoes  come, 
Of  the  thrilling  blast  t)f  trumpet, 

And  the  roll  of  the  rattling  drum. 

And  the  grandsire  speaks  in  a  whisper- 

"  The   end  no  man  can  see, 
But  we  gave  him  to  his  country, 
-And  we  give  our  prayers  to  Theo." 


OF    THE     WAR.  225 

The  lark  sings  in  the  meadows, 

The  jessamine  scents  the   room, 
And  in  the   apple   orchard 

The  sweet  pink   blossoms  bloom. 

But  the   grandsire's  chair  is   empty, 

The  cottage   is  dark   and  still, 
There's  a  nameless  grave   on  the  battle-field, 

And  a  new  &ne   under  the  hill. 

And  a  pallid,  tearless  woman, 

By  the   cold  hearth  sits  alone, 
And  the  old  clock   in  the  corner 

Ticks  on  with  a  steady  drone. 


The  clock  stands  mute  in  the  corner, 
The  meadows  sleep  in  the  sun  ; 

The  maiden  's  borne  from  the  cottage, 
For  the  task  of  the  reaper  's  done. 

FOET  TAYLORD,  N.  C. 


226  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


DIRGE   FOR   ASHBY. 

Heard  ye  that  thrilling  word — 

Accent  of   dread  ! 
Fall  like  a  thunderbolt, 

Bowing  each  head  ? 
Over  the  battle  dun — 
Over  each  booming  gun — 

Ashby,  our  bravest  one  ! 
Asliby  is  dead! 

Saw  ye  the  veterans — 

Hearts  that  had  known 
Never  a  quail   of   fear, 

Never  a  groan — 
Sob   'mid  the  fight  they  win, 
Tears  their  stern  eyes  within  ? 
Ashby,  our  paladin  / 
Ashby  is  dead! 

Dash,  dash  the  tear  away  ! 

Crush  down  the  pain  ! 
Dulce  et  decus  be 

Fittest  refrain. 
Why   should  the  dreary  pall 
Round  him  be  flung  at  all  ? 
Did  not  our  hero  fall, 

Gallantly  slain? 


OF    THE     WAR.  227 

Catch  the  last  words  of  cheer 

Dropped  from,  his  tongue  ! 
Over  the  volley's  din 

Let  them  be   rung  ! 
"Follow  me!     Follow  me!" 
Soldier  !  oh  !  could  there  be 
Pecan,   or  dirge  for  thee 
Loftier  sung  ? 

Bold  as  the   Lion's   Heart — 

Dauntless  and  brave, 
Knightly  as  knightliest 

Bayard  could  crave  ; 
Sweet — with  all   Sidney's  grace — 
Tender  as  Hampden's  face — 
Who,  who  shall  fill  the  space, 
Void  by  his  grave  ? 

'  T  is  not  one  broken  heart, 

Wild  with  dismay — 
Crazed  in  her  agony — 

Weeps  o'er  his  clay  ! 
Ah  !    from  a  thousand   eyes 
-Flow  the  pure  tears  that  rise — 
Widowed  VIRGINIA  lies 
Stricken  to-day  ! 

Yet  charge   as  gallantly, 

Ye  wrhom  he  led  ! 
Jackson  the  victor,  still 

Stands  at  your  head  ! 


228  SOUTHERN    P  OEMS 

Heroes !    be  battle   done, 
Bravelier  every  one, 
Nerved  by  the  thought  alone- 
Ashby  is  dead! 


ASHBY. 

BY  JXO.   II.  THOMPSON. 

To  the  brave  all  homage  render  ! 

Weep,   ye    skies  of   June  ! 
With  a  radiance  pure   and  tender, 

Shine,   oh,  saddened  moon  ! 
"  Dead  upon  the  field  of  glory!" — 
Hero  fit  for  song  and  story — 

Li-es  our  bold  dragoon  ! 

Well  they  learned,  whose  hands  have  slain  him, 

Braver,  knightlier  foe 
Never  fought  'gainst  Moor   or  Paynim — 

Eode    at  Templestowe  : 
With  a  mien  how  high  and  joyous, 
'Gainst  the  hordes  that  would   destroy   us 

Went  he  forth,  we   know. 

Never  more,   alas !    shall  sabre 

Gleam  around  his  crest — 
Fought  his  fight,  fulfilled  his  labor, 

Stilled  his  manly  breast — 


OF    THE     WAR.  229 

All  unheard  sweet  nature's  cadence, 
Trump  of  fame  and  voice  of  maidens, 
Now  he  takes  his  rest. 

Earth,  that  all  too  soon  hast  bound  him, 

Gently  wrap  his   clay  ! 
Linger  lovingly  around  him, 

Light  of  dying  day  ! 
Softly  fall,  ye   summer  showers — 
Birds  and  bees  among  the  flowers, 

Make  the  gloom  seem  gay  ! 

Then  throughout  the   coming  ages, 

When  his  sword   is  rust, 
And  his  deeds  in  classic  pages — 

Mindful  of  her  trust, 
Shall  VIKGINIA,  bending  lowly, 
Still  a  ceaseless  vigil  holy 

Keep  above  his  dust ! 


12 


230  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


GEN.    JOHN    B.    FLOYD. 

BY     EULA1JK 

The  noble  hero   calmly  sleeps, 

Unheeding  all  life's  surging  woes, 

An   angel-guard   its  vigil  keeps 
About  his  couch  of  deep   repose. 

How  still  that  brain   once  full  of  thought! 

How  calm  that  pulse,  which  wildly  beat  ! 
Grim  death  the  mighty  change  hath  wrought, 

And   now  he  lies  in  rest  most  sweet. 

Hush'd  to  his  ear  the  siren's  song, 

Hush'd  is  the   clarion  trump  of  fame  ; 

No  more  applauds  the   list'ning  throng, 
His  bold  tones  thrill  them   not  again  ! 

Virginia  mourns  her  gallant  son, 

Whose   voice   of  wisdom  charm' d  her  heart ; 
How  many   a  noble   conquest  won, 

When   he  from  virtue   would  not  part ! 

And   on  the  battle's  gory   field, 

When   foes  assail'd  our  Southern   land, 

His  dauntless  spirit  would  not  yield, 
But  boldly  met  th'   invading  band. 


OF    THE     WAR.  231 

What  anxious  cares  his  soul  harass'd,  , 
What  sleepless  nights  his  pillow  found, 

But  now  those  bitter  pangs  are  passed — 
He  heeds  no  more  the  bugle's  sound  ! 

He   sleeps  in  Jesus,  blissful  sleep  ! 

His  cares  forgotten,   sorrows  o'er, 
With  lov'd  ones,  where  no  eye  doth  weep, 

He  treads  in  peace  th'   Eternal  shore. 

That  eagle  eye  now  sweeps  through  space, 
And  reads  the  open  book  of  love. 

That  voice  shall  to  the  Lamb  give  praise, 
While  endless  cycles  onward  move  ! 

WOODLAWN,  VA.,  April,  1866. 


232  SOUTHERN    P  0  EM  S 


VIRGINIA'S   DEAD. 

Proud  mother  of  a  race  that  reared 

The  brave   and  good  of  ours, 
Lo  !  on  thy  bleeding  bosom  lie, 

Thy  pale  and  perished  flowers. 
Where'er  upon  her  own  bright  soil 

Hosts  meet  their  blood  to  shed, 
Where  brightest  gleams  the  victor's  sword, 

There  lie  Virginia's  dead. 

And  where  upon  the  crimsoned  field 

The  cannon  loudest  roars, 
And  hero  blood  for  liberty 

A  streaming  torrent  pours, 
Where  fiercest  glows  the  battle's  rage, 

And   Southern   banners  spread, 
Where  minions  crouch  and  vassals  kneel, 

There  lie  Virginia's  dead. 

Where  bright  Potomac's  classic  wave 

Flows  softly  to  the  sea, 
And  Shenandoah's  valley  smiles 

In  her  captivity ; 
Where  sullen  Mississippi  rolls, 

By  foaming  torrents  fed, 
And  Tennessee's  smooth  ripple  breaks, 

There  sleep  Virginia's  dead. 


OF    THE     WAR.  233 

And  where  mid  dreary  mountain  heights, 

The  frost-king  sternly  sate, 
As  Garnett  cheered  his  followers  on, 

And  nobly  met  his  fate  ; 
Where  Johnson,^Lee  and  Beauregard, 

Their  gallant  armies  led, 
Thro'  winter  snows  and  tropic  suns, 

There  sleep  Virginia's  dead. 

And  where  through  Georgia's  flowery  meads, 

The  proud  Savannah  flows, 
And  soft  o'er  Carolina's  brow 

Atlantic's  pure  breeze  blows  ; 
Where  Florida's  sweet  tropic  flowers, 

Their  dewy  fragrance   shed, 
And  night-winds  sigh  through  orange  groves, 

There  sleep  Virginia's  dead  ! 

Where  sad  Louisiana's  eye, 

Looks  darkly  on  her  chains, 
And  proud  New  Orleans'  noble  street, 

The  despot's  heel  profanes ; 
Where  virtue  shrinks  in  dread  dismay, 

And  beauty  bows  her  head, 
/Where  courage  spurns  the  oppressors'  yoke, 

There  lie  Virginia's  dead  ! 

'Neath  Alabama's  sunny  skies, 

On   Texas'   burning  shore, 
Where  blooming  prairies  brightly  sweep 

Missouri's  bosom  o'er — 


234  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Where  bold  Kentucky's  lion  heart, 
Leaps  to  her  Morgan's  tread, 

And  tyrants  quail  at  freedom's  cry, 
There  sleep  Virginia's  dead. 

^ 

And  where  the  ocean's  trackless  waves 

O'er  pallid  corpses  sweep, 
As  'mid  the  cannon's  thunder  peal, 

"  Deep  calleth  unto  deep," 
Wherever  Honor's  sword  is  drawn, 

And  Justice  rears  her  head, 
Where  heroes  fall  and  martyrs  bleed, 

There  rest  Virginia's  dead. 


OF    THE     WAR.  235 


MY    ORDER. 


l',Y     GORDON     Jl  CABE. 


Said  to  have  been   found  in   the  pocket  of  a  wounded  soldier,   in 
hospital. 


This  flower  lias  set  me  a-dreaming 
Of  the  future  for  you  and  for  me, 

All   radiant  with  golden  sunlight, 

And  as  bright  as  the   future  must  be, 

When  youth  guides  the  pencil,  and  Fancy 
Holds  .his  colors  of   crimson   and  gold, 

When   Heaven's  own   blue   is  above   us, 
And  it  seems  we  shall   never  'grow  old. 

Sweetly  stern  the  voice   that  awakes  me  ! 

Virginia  is   calling  her  sons, 
I  can  hear  the  tramp  of  her  legions, 

And  her  hill-sides  are  bristling  with  guns. 

I   look   at  my  garb  as  her  soldier, 
That  is  rusty  and  faded  by  rain, 

And  know  'tis  no  time  to  be  dreaming, 
When  her  foemen   are  pressing  amain. 


236  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

I  will  do  as  did  my  brave  namesake, 
Whose   sad  story  our  old  ballads  sing, 

When  his  ladye-love  gave  him  a  flower, 
Ere  he  rode  to  strike  for  his  king. 

He  placed  it  beneath  his  silk-doublet, 
With  a  tender   and  reverent  care, 

"Tie   "  My    Order"   he   said,    "  that  forever 
I  will  strive  to  be  worthy  to  wear." 

Charging  home  with  fiery  Rupert, 

In   the   van   of   old   England's  best  blood, 

The  gallant  went  down  upon  Naseby, 

Where  the  stout-hearted  pikemen  had  stood. 

A  cut  'cross  the  beautiful  forehead, 

The  dark  love-locks  all  dripping  with  gore, 

And  his  lips  closely  prest  to  a  flower 
That  was  hid  in  the  scarf  that  he  wore. 

So  this  flower  you  gave  me,  dear  lady, 
I   will  place  'neath  my  jacket  of  gray, 

As  my  "  order  "  for  which  to  strike  boldly, 
Charging  home,  as  he  did,  in  the  fray. 

And  if  Fate  should  decree  that  my  life, 
Like  his  to  the  cause  should  be  given, 

I  will  pray  that  my  soul  may  be  wafted 
On  this  flower's  sweet  perfume  to  Heaven. 

RICHMOND,  VA. 


OF     THE     WAR.  237 


THE   SOUTHERN   CROSS. 

Fling  wide  each  fold,  brave  flag,  unrolled 

In  all  thy  breadth  and  length  ! 
Float  out  unfurled,  and  show  the  world 

A  new-born  nation's  strength. 
Thou  dost  not  wave  all  bright  and  brave 

In  holiday  attire  ; 
'Mid  cannon  chimes  a/thousand  times 

Baptized  in  blood  and  fire. 

No  silken  toy  to  flaunt  in   joy 

Where  careless  shouts  are  heard  ; 
Where  thou  art  borne  all  scathed  and  torn, 

A  nation's  heart  is  stirred. 
Where  half-clad  groups  of  toil-worn  troops 

Are  marching  to  the  wars, 
What  grateful  tears  and  heart-felt*  cheers 

Salute  thy  cross  of  stars  ! 

Thou  ne'er  hast  seen  the  pomp  and  sheen, 

The  pageant  of  a  court ; 
Or  masquerade  of  war's  parade, 

Where  fields  are  fought  in  sport : 
But  thou  knowest  well  the  battle  yell 

From  which  thy  foemen  reel, 
When  down  the  steeps  resistless  leaps 

A  sea  of   Southern  steel. 

12* 


238  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Thou  know'st  the  storm  of   balls  that  swarm 

In  dense  and  hurtling  flight, 
When  thy  cross' d  bars  a  blaze  of  stars 

Plunge  headlong  through  the  fight ; 
Where  thou'rt  unfurled  are  thickest  hurled 

The  thunderbolts  of  war, 
oAnd  thou  art  met  writh  loudest  threat 

Of   cannon  from  afar. 

For  thee  is  told  the  merchant's  gold— 

The  planter's  harvests  fall, 
Thine  is  the  gain  of   hand  and  brain, 

And  the  heart's  wealth  of  all : 
For  thee  each  heart  has  borne  to  part 

With  what  it  holds  most  dear, 
Through  all  the  land  no  woman's  hand. 

Has  stayed  one  volunteer. 

Though  from  thy  birth  outlawed  on  earth, 

By  older  nations  spurned, 
Their  fullngrown  fame  may  dread  the  name 

Thy  infancy  has  earned. 
For  thou  dost  flood  the  land  with  blood 

And  sweep  the  seas  with  fire, 
And  all  the  earth  applauds  the  worth 

Of   deeds  thou  dost  inspire  ! 

Thy  stainless  field  shall  empire  wield 

Supreme  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  proudly  shine  the  honored  sign 

Of  peoples  yet  to   be. 


OF    THE     WAR.  239 

When  thou  shalt  grace  the  hard  won  place 

The  nations  grudge  thee  now, 
No  land  shall-  show  to  friend  or  foe 

A  nobler  flag  than  thou  ! 


HYMN   TO   THE   NATIONAL   FLAG. 

BY     MRS.     M.     J.      PRESTON. 

Float  aloft,   thou  stainless  banner, 
Azure  cross  and  field  of    light, 

Be  thy  brilliant  stars  the  symbol 
Of   the  pure  and  true  and  right ; 

Shelter  Freedom's  holy  cause, 

Liberty  and  sacred  laws, 

Guard  the  youngest  of  the  Nations — 
Keep  her  virgin  honor  bright. 

From   Virginia's  storied  border, 

Dowrn   to  Tampa's  furthest  shore. 
From  the  blue  Atlantic's  dashings 

To  the  Rio  Grande's  roar, 
Over  many  a  crimson  plain, 
Where  our  martyred  one's  lie  slain, 
Fling  abroad  thy  blessed  shelter, 
Stream  and  mount  and  valley  o'er. 


240  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

In  thy  cross  of  Heavenly  azure, 
Has  our  faith  its  emblem  high, 

In  thy  field  of  white,  the  hallowed 
Truth,   for  which  we'll  dare  and  die. 

In  thy  red,  the  patriot  blood 

Ah  !   the  consecrated  flood  ! 

Lift  thyself  !    resistless  banner  ! 
Ever  fill  our  Southern  sky  ! 

Flash  with  living  lightning  motion 

In  the  sight  of  all  the  brave, 
Tell  the  price  at  which  we  purchased 

Room  and  right  for  thee  to  wave 
Freely  in   our   God's  free  air, 
Pure  and  proud  and  stainless  fair- 
Banner  of  the  youngest  nation, 
Banner  we  would  die  to  save  ! 

Strike  thou  for  us — King  of  Armies  ! 

Grant  us  room  in  thy  broad  world, 
Loosen   all   the   despot's  fetters, 

Back  be  all  his  legions  hurled  ! 
Give  us  peace  and  liberty  ! 
Let  the  land  we  love  be  free  ! 
Then   oh !  bright  and  stainless  banner 

Never  shall  thv  folds  be  furled  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  241 


THE    COUNTERSIGN. 

Alas !  the  weary  hours  pass  slow, 

The  night  is  very  dark  and  still, 
And  in  the  marshes  far  below 

I  hear  the  bearded  whip-poor-will. 
I  scarce  can  see  a  yard  ahead, 

My  ears  are  strained  to  catch  each  sound, 
I  hear  the  leaves  about  me  shed, 

And  the  springs  bubbling  through  the  ground. 

Along  the  beaten  path  I  pace, 

Where  white  rags  mark  my  sentry's  track, 
In  formless  shrubs  I  seem  to  trace 

The  foeman's  form  with  bending  back. 
I  think  I  see  him  crouching  low, 

I  stop  and  list — I  stop  and  peer — 
Until  the  neighboring   hillocks  grow 

To  groups  of  soldiers  far  and  near. 

With  ready  piece  I  wait  and  watch, 

Until  mine  eyes  familiar  grown, 
Detect  each  harmless  earthen  notch, 

And  turn  guerillas  into  stone. 
And  then  amid  the   lonely  gloom, 

Beneath  the  weird  old  tulip  trees, 
My  silent  marches  I  resume, 

And  think  on  other  times  than  these. 


242  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Sweet  visions  through  the  silent  night, 

The  deep  bay-windows  fringed  with  vine, 
The  room  within,  in  softened  light 

The  tender,  pure  white  hand  in  mine  ; 
The  timid  pressure,  and  the  pause 

That  oftentimes  o'ercame  our  speech — 
That  time  when  by  mysterious  laws, 

We  each  felt  all  in  all  to  each. 

So  rose  the  dream — so  pass'd  the  night — 

When  distant  in  the  darksome  glen, 
Approaching  up  the  sombre  height, 

I  heard  the  measured  march  of  men  ; 
Till  over  stubble,  over  sward, 

And  fields  where  lay  the  golden  sheaf, 
I  saw  the  lantern  of  the  guard 

Advancing  with  the  night  relief. 

"Halt!  who  goes  there?"  my  challenge  cry, 

It  rings  along  the  watchful  line ; 
"Relief!"   I  hear  a  voice  reply, 

"Advance,  and  give  the  countersign!" 
With  bayonet  at  the  charge  I  wait, 

The  corporal  gives  the  mystic   spell, 
With  arms  at  port  I  charge  my  mate, 

And  onward  pass,  and  all  is  well. 

But  in  the  tent  that  night  awake. 

I  think  if  in  the  fray  I  fall, 
Can  I  the  mystic  answer  make 

Whene'er  the  angelic  sentries  call  ? 


OF    THE     WAR.  243 

And  pray  that  Heaven  may  so  ordain, 
That  when  I   near  the  camp  divine, 

Whether  in   travail   or   in   pain, 
I  too  may  have  the  countersign. 


OUR   "COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA." 

LINES    WRITTEN     IN     FORT     LAFAYETTE     BY     A     PRISONER. 

I   dreamed  that  I   dwelt  in  marble   halls, 

And  'tis  not  so,  you  see  ; 
For  cold  and  gray  are  the  granite  walls 

Of  "  our  cottage  by  the  sea." 

No  balmy  gentle  zephyrs  here, 

But  "  shrill  winds  whistle  free," 
No  "  lowing  kine  "  nor  flowers  are  here, 

In   "  our  cottage  by  the  sea." 

But  we've  bunches  of  grape,  oh  !  heavier  far, 

Than    ever   you    did    see ; 
And  cannisters,  too,  we  have,  my  dear, 

But  they   are   not  filled  with  tea. 

Such  beautiful  shells,   as  we  have  here, 

Tho'  not  washed  up  by  the  sea, 
And  marine   curiosities  one  may  speer, 

In   "  our  cottage  by  the  sea." 


244  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

The  wild  'goose  on   its  Southern  flight, 

In  lengthening  lines  we  see, 
And  we  hear  the  houk*  in  the  morning  light, 

In  "  our   cottage   by   the  sea." 

We  can  only  dream  of  marble  halls, 

And  beauties   of  the  sea, 
Disturbed  the  while  by  the  sentry's  calls, 

In   "  our  cottage   by  the  sea." 

Alas  !  alas  !  for  the    "  pleasures  of  hope," 
They're  our  only  pleasure,  you  see  ; 

And  all  we  can  do  is  sit  and  mope 
In   "  our  cottage  by   the  sea." 


*  Hcuk — cry  of  the  wild  goose. 


OF    THE     WAR.  245 


THE   QUAKER    GIRL'S   FAREWELL    TO    HER 
SOUTHERN    LOVER. 

BY      MRS.      ELIZA      E.      HARPER. 

George,  we.  must  part — and  part  for  aye, 

And  thee  must  now  forget 
All   our  past  love,  for  we  must  live, 

As  tho'  we  ne'er  had  met. 

I   cannot  leave  my  father,   George, 

He  has  but  me  to  love  ; 
Our  paths  through  life  lie  wide  apart, 

Perhaps  they'll  meet  above. 

Life's  path  would   brighter  seem  to  me, 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side — 
But  they'd  not  welcome  thee  at  home, 

If  I  went  as  thy  bride. 

So  we  our  plighted  troth  must  break, 

Thy  friends  and  mine   are  foes, 
'Tis  not  that   I   do  love   thee  less, 

But  blood  between  us  flows. 

Thy  country  needs  thy  heart  and  hand, 

Yet  let  me  keep   thy  ring, 
And  wear  it  for  the  memory 

That  round  my  heart  will   cling. 


246  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

And   thou  wilt  wear  the  one  I  gave, 

But  heed  my   parting  word  : 
*  Not  on  thy  trigger -finger,    George, 
Nor  hand  that  grasps  the  sword! 

And  sometimes  in   thy  Southern  home, 
Which   once   I   thought  to  share, 

Think   of   the   far-off   "Qual-cr  girl" 
And  breathe  for  her  a  prayer. 

But  now   farewell,  this  is   no  time 
The   heart's  fond   words -to  say, 

We   cannot  wed — we  must  not  love — 
But  I  will   for  thee  pray. 

MINDEN.  LA.,   Oct.  186'. 


*  This  little  poem  is  founded  on  a  true  incident.     My  young  cousin  George 

was  being  educated  by  a  clergyman  in  Pennsylvania  and  boarded  with 

a  Quaker  family,  one  of  whom  was  a  beautiful  young  girl  sweet  sixteen.  Of 
course  he  '•  fell  in  love,"  and  when  he  left  to  join  the  Southern  army  rings 
were  exchanged,  the  "  Quaker  girl"  saying  "thee  must  not  wear  it  on  thy 
trigger-finger,  Ueorge.'' 


OF    THE     WAR.  247 


A   CONFEDERATE   OFFICER  TO    HIS   LADYE 
LOVE, 

Maj.  McKnight,  ("Asa  Ilartz  ")  A.  A.  Q.,  Gen.  Loring's  staff, 
while  a  prisoner  of  war  at  Johnston's  Island  wrote  the  fol 
lowing  : 

My  love  reposes  on  a  rosewood  frame — 

A  bunk  have   I ; 
A  couch,  of  feathery  down  fills  up  the   same — 

Mine's  straw,  but  dry  ; 

She  sinks  to  sleep   at  night  with  scarce  a  sigh — 
With  waking  eyes  I  wratch  the  hours  creep  by. 

My   love  her  daily   dinner  takes   in   state— 

And  so  do  I  (?)  ; 
The  richest  viands  flank  her  silver  plate — 

Coarse  grub  have   I ; 

Pure  wines  she  sips  at  ease,  her  thirst  to  slake — 
I  pump  my   drink   from   Erie's  limpid  lake  ! 

My  love  has  all  the  world  at  will   to  roam — 

Three   acres   I ; 
She  goes  abroad  or  quiet  sits  at  home — 

So   cannot  I ; 

Bright  angels  watch  around  her  couch  at  night — 
A  Yank,  with  loaded  gun  keeps  me  in  sight, 


248  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

A  thousand  weary  miles  do  stretch  between 

My  lov$,  and  I ; 
To  her,  this  wintry  night,  cold,  calm,  serene, 

I   waft  a  sigh  ; 

And  hope,  with  all  my  earnestness  of  soul, 
To-morrow's  mail  may  bring  me  my  parole  ! 

There's  hope  ahead  !     We'll  one  day  meet  again, 

My  love  and  I ; 
We'll  wipe  away  all  tears  of  sorrow  then, 

Her  lovelit  eye, 

Will  all  my  many  troubles  then  beguile, 
And  keep  this  wayward  reb.  from  Johnston's  Isle. 


OF    THE     WAR.  249 


THE   HOMESPUN  DRESS. 

AIR — Bonnie  Blue  Flag. 

Oh  !  yes,  I   am   a  Southern  girl, 

And  glory   in  the   name, 
And  boast  it  with  far  greater  pride 

Than  glittering  wealth  or  fame. 
We   envy  not  the  Northern  girl 

Her  robes  of  beauty  rare, 
Though  diamonds  grace  her  snowy  neck, 
And  pearls  bedeck  her  hair. 
Hurrah  !    Hurrah  ! 
For  the   sunny   South  so  dear, 
Three  cheers  for  the  homespun  dress 
The  Southern  ladies  wear ! 

The  homespun  dress  is  plain,  I  know, 

My  hat's  palmetto,  too ; 
But  then  it  shows  what  Southern  girls 

For  Southern   rights  will   do. 
We  send  the  bravest  of  our  land 

To  battle  with  the  foe, 
And  we  will   lend  a  helping  hand — 

We  love  the  South,  you  know. 

Hurrah  !    Hurrah  ! 

% 

For  the  sunny  South  so  dear, 
Three  cheers  for  the  homespun  dress 
The  Southern  ladies  wear  ! 


250  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Now  Northern  goods  are  out  of  date  ; 

And  since  old  Abe's  blockade, 
We  Southern   girls  can   be  content 

With  goods  that's   Southern  made. 
We  send  our  sweethearts  to  the  war  ; 

But,   dear  girls,   never  mind — 
Your  soldier-love   will  ne'er  forget 
The   girl  he  left  behind. 
Hurrah  !    Hurrah  ! 
For  the  sunny  South  so  dear, 
Three  cheers  for  the  homespun  dress 
The  Southern  ladies  wrear  ! 

The  soldier  is  the   lad   for  me — 

A  brave  heart  I  adore ; 
And  when   the  sunny  South  is  free. 

And  when  fighting  is  no  more, 
I'll  choose  me  then   a  lover  brave 

From  out  that  gallant  band. 
The  soldier-lad  I  love  the  best 
Shall  have  my   heart  and  hand. 
Hurrah  !    Hurrah  ! 
For  the  sunny  South  so  dear, 
Three  cheers  for  the  homespvm  dress 
The   Southern   ladies  wear  ! 

The  Southern  land's  a  glorious  land. 

And  has  a  glorious  cause  ; 
Then  cheer,  three  cheers  for  Southern  rights, 

And   for  the   Southern   bovs  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  251 

We  scorn  to  wear  a  bit  of  silk, 

A  bit  of  Northern  lace,% 
But  make   our  homespun   dresses  up, 
And  wear  them  with  a  grace. 
.  Hurrah  !    Hurrah  ! 
For  the  sunny  South  so  dear, 
Three  cheers  for  the  homespun  dress 
The  Southern  ladies  wear  ! 

And  now,  young   man.  a  word  to  you  : 

If  you  would  win  the  fair, 
Go  to  the  field  where  honor  calls, 

And  win  your  lady  there. 
Remember  that  our  brightest  smiles 

Are  for  the  true  and  brave, 
And  that   our  tears  are  all  for  those 
Who  fill  a  soldier's  grave. 
Hurrah  !    Hurrah  ! 
For  the   sunny  South  so   dear, 
Three  cheers  for  the  homespun  dress 
The   Southern   ladies  wear  ! 


252  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


CANNON  SONG. 

Aha !  a   song  for  the  trumpet's  tongue  ! 

For  the   bugle   to   sing  before   us, 
When   our  gleaming  guns,  like   clarions, 

Shall  thunder  in   battle   chorus ! 
Where  the  rifles  ring,  where  the  bullets  sing, 

Where  the  black   bombs  whistle   o'er  us, 
With   rolling  wheel  and  rattling  peal 
They'll   thunder   in  battle   chorus  ! 

With  the  cannon's  flash,  and  the  cannon's  crash, 
«       With  the   cannon's  roar  and  rattle, 

Let  Freedom's  sons,  with  their  shouting  guns, 
Go  down  to  their  country's  battle  ! 

Their  brassy  throats  shall  learn  the  notes 

That  make  old  tyrants  quiver, 
Till  the  war  is  done,  or  each  TYRRELL  gun, 

Grows  cold  with   our  hearts  forever  ! 
Where  the  laurel  waves  o'er  our  brothers'  graves, 

Who  have  gone   to  their  rest  before  us, 
Here's  a  requiem  shall   sound  for  them 
And  thunder  in  battle   chorus  ! 

With  the  cannon's  flash,  and  the  cannon's  crash, 

With  the  cannon's  roar  and  rattle, 
Let  Freedom's  sons,  with  their  shouting  guns, 
Go  down  to  their  country's  battle  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  253 

By  the  light  that  lies  in  our  Southern  skies, 

By  the  spirits  that  watch  above  us  ; 
By  the  gentle  hands  in   our  summer  lands, 

And  the  gentle  hearts  that  love  us  ! 
Our  fathers'   faith  let  us  keep  till   death, 
Their  fame  in  its  cloudless  splendor — 
As  men  who  stand  for  their  mother  land, 
And  die — but  never  surrender  ! 

With  the  cannon's  flash,  and  the  cannon's  crash, 

With  the  cannon's  roar  and  rattle, 
Let  Freedom's  sons,  with  their  thundering  guns, 
Go  down  to  their  country's  battle ! 


ON    A    RAID. 

» 
BY     IKEY     INGLE. 

We  must  lively  move  to  night  my  men,  brisk  march 
ing  's  to  be  done  ! 

For  a  stout   blow   must   be   struck,   and  true,   by  the 
morrow's  rising  sun, 

A  blow  for  Virginia's  hearthstones,   round  which  her 
daughters  sit, 

And   weary    and    sad    and    famished   toil,    to    fill    the 
soldier's  kit. 

A  blow  for  our  fallen   comrades,  for  liberty  and  life, 

I  will  lead  and  who'd  be  near  me  must  be  foremost 
in  the  strife  ; 
13 


254  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

For  'twill  be  no  oft  tried  combat  with  the  rifle's  range 

between, 
But  breast  to  breast  and  blow  for  blow  with  the  sabre 

swift  and  keen. 
Then  on,  my  lads,  no  songs  to  night !   e'en  your  spurs 

too  noisy  clank, 
For  a  silent  night  must  be  our  guide  to  the  invader's 

trailing  flank. 

And  the   lael  Sothoron*   kept  his  word,  for  his  bugles 

rang   from   far, 
And  his  gallant  troop   swept  down  in  charge,  with  a 

shout  and  a  wild  huzza. 

Like  the  storm  down  the  Alpine  gorge  with  its  blast 
ing  lightning  breath, 
Leaving  weird  waste   behind  it,  and  flooding  the  tide 

of  death. 
At  its  head  with  flashing  falchion,  rode  a  Cavalier  to 

life, 
A  man  of  mirth  to  his  merry  men,  but  a  direful  foe 

in   strife  ; 
For  the  stroke  of  his  trusty  sabre  fell,  with  the  force 

of  the  vernal   flood, 
Like  the  swoop  of  the  mountain  eagle  down,  when  the 

young  ones  cry   for  food. 
And  his  deep  blue   eye   flashed  gorgeously,  and  a  joy 

in   his  visage  shone, 

*  No  stranger  could  look  upon  the  frank  florid  face  of  Stuart,  meet  the 
glance  of  his  honest  sparkling  blue  eye,  or  the  warm  coirlial  grasp  of  his 
hand  without  feeling  a  positive  conviction  of  the  Scottish  origin  of  this 
boon  cavalier. 


OF    THE     WAR.  255 

Like  the  gleam   on   the   face  of  the  dying  saint  when 

his   crown   is  almost  won. 
His  joy  that  a  frame   inured  to  toil,  and  a  dauntless 

soul   were   lent, 
In  the   cause   of    Right  and   Liberty  to  spend  and  to 

be  spent. 
'Tis  an   envied   pride    the    mariner  feels — his   ship    on 

the   raging  sea — 
When   at  Nature's  threat  in  the  tempest's  tread,  e'en 

atheists  bend  the  knee — 
To  feel  that   /us  skill   and  compass  true   can  mock  at 

old  ocean's  sport, 
An  hundred   hearts  from   affliction   save,  and  his  bark 

bring  safe   to   port ; 
'Tis  exulting  joy  the  orator  feels  as  he  bends  o'er  the 

enraptured  throng, 
By  the  impetuous  tide  of  his  eloquence,  to  his  purpose 

borne  along  ; 
But  give  me  the  sense  that  thrills  each  vein,  and  wraps 

each   nerve   with  fire, 
As  the  patriot  faces  his  country's  foe,  in  his  fierce  yet 

holy  ire  ; 
As  he  measures  each  thrust  of  his  trusty  sword  by  the 

depth  of  his  country's  wrong, 
Yields  drop  by  drop  a  patriot's  blood  his  country's  foes 

among  ; 

Keclaims   with   each  blow  of   his  lusty  arm,   the  foot 
steps  his  childhood   trod, 
And  offers  his  life   for   liberty   and  the  altars  of    his 

God. 

RKHMOND,  VA-,  1862 


256  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


COMING  AT  LAST. 

BY    GEORGE    H.    MILES. 

Up   on  the   hill   there, 

Who  are  they,   pray, 
Three   dusty  troopers 

Spurring  this  way  ?  • 
And  that  squadron  behind  them  ? 

Stand  not  aghast — 
Why,   these   are  the  rebels,  sir, 

Coming  at  last ! 

Coming  so  carelessly, 

Sauntering  on, 
Into  the  midst   of  us, 

Into  our  town  ; 
Thrice  thirty  miles  to-day 

These  men  have  passed, 
Stuart  at  the  head  of  them 

Coming  at  last ! 

Oh,  sir  !    no  gold  lace 

Burns  in  the  sun, 
But  each   blooded  war-horse 

And  rider  seem  one. 
These  men  could  ride  at  need, 

Outride  the  blast — 
0  yes,   sir,   the  rebels 

Are  coming  at  last ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  257 

Circling  Mac's  army, 

Three  days  at  work  ! 
Under  that  smile   of  theirs 

Famine  may  lurk. 
Out  with  the  best  you  have, 

Fill  the  bowl   fast, 
For  Jeff's  ragged  rebels 

Are  coming  at  last  1 

FREDERICK  Co.,  MD. 


,       BEYOND   THE   POTOMAC. 

BY    PAUL   H.    HAYNE,    OF    SOUTH    CAROLINA. 

They  slept  on  the  field  which  their  valor  had  won  ! 
But  arose   with  the  first  early  blush  of  the  sun, 
For   they   knew   that   a  great   deed    remained    to    be 
done, 

When  they  passed  o'er  the  Kiver  : 

They  rose    with   the   sun,    and   caught    life    from  his 

light— 

Those  giants  of   courage,  those   Anaks   in  fight — 
And   they   laughed    out    aloud   in    the    joy   of    their 

might, 

Marching  swift  for  the  Eiver. 


258  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

On  !    on  !    like     the     rushing     of    storms     thro'    the 

hills— 

On  !    on  !    with  a  tramp  that  is    firm  as  their  wills — 
And  the  one   heart  of  thousands   grows   buoyant,  and 

thrills, 

At  the   thought  of   the   River  ! 

Oh !    the    sheen    of    their   swords !    the    fierce    gleam 

of  their  eyes  ! 

It  seemed  as  on  earth  a  new  sunlight  would  rise, 
And  king-like,   flash  up  to  the  sun  in  the  skies, 
O'er  the  path  to  the  River. 

But,    their    banners     shot-scarred,     and    all    darkened 

with  gore, 

On  morning's  fresh  breeze  streaming  bravely  before, 

Like  wings  of  Death's  angels  swept  fast  to  the  shore, 

The  green  shore  of  the  River. 

As    they  march,    from    the   hill-side,   the   hamlet,    the 

stream, 

Gaunt  throngs  whom  the  Foeman  had  manacled,   teem 
Like  men  just  aroused  from  some  terrible  dream, 
To  pass  o'er  the  River. 

They  behold    the  broad  Banners,   blood-darkened,    yet 

fair, 

And  a  moment  dissolves  the  last  spell   of  despair, 
While  a  peal  as  of  victory  swells  on  the  air, 
Rolling  out  to  the  River. 


OF    THE     WAR.  259 

And  that  cry,  with  a  thousand  strange  echoings  spread, 
Till  the  ashes  of  heroes  seemed  stirred  in  their  bed, 
And  the  deep  voice  of  passion  surged  up  from  the  dead, 
Aye  !  press  on  to  the  River  ! 

On !  on  !  like  the  rushing  of  storms  through  the  hills, 
On  !  on  !  with  a  tramp  that  is  firm  as  their  wills, 
And  the   one  heart  of  thousands  grows  buoyant ;  and 
thrills, 

As  they  pause  by   the   River. 

Then  the  wran  face  of  Maryland,  haggard  and  worn, 
At  that  sight  lost  the  touch  of  its  aspect   forlorn, 
And  she  turned  on  the  Foeman  full  statured  in  scorn, 
Pointing  stern  to  the  River. 

And  Potomac  flowed  calmly,  scarce  heaving  her  breast, 
With  her  low  lying  billows  all  bright  in  the  West, 
For  the  hand  of  the  Lord  lulled  the  waters  to  rest 
Of  the  fair  rolling  River. 

Passed  !  passed  !    the    glad  thousands  march  safe   thro' 

the  tide. 

(Hark,  Despot !  and  hear  the  deep  knell  of  your  pride, 
Ringing  weird-like  and  wild,  pealing  up  from  the  side 
Of  the  calm  flowing  River  ! ) 

'  Neath  a  blow  swift  and  mighty  the  Tyrant  shall  fall, 
Vain  !    vain  !  to  his  God  swells  a  desolate  call, 
For  his  grave  has  been  hollowed,  and  woven  his  pall, 
Since  they  passed  o'er  the  River  ! 


260  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


THE   SOUTHERN  OATH. 

BY    ROSA    VERTNER    JEFFREY. 

By  the  cross  upon  our  banner, 

Glory  of  our  Southern  sky, 
We  have  sworn — a  band  of  brothers,  . 

Free   to  live   or  free  to  die, — 
We  have  sworn  as  freemen   never 

Swear,  who  live   to  break  their  vow, 
North-men,  by  the  rights  denied  us, 

Ye  shall  never  rule  us  now. 

By  our  dear  ones  lost  in  battle, 

Best  and  bravest  of  our  land, 
Fighting  with  your  Northern  hirelings 

Face  to  face  and  hand  to  hand, 
By  a  sacrifice  so  priceless, 

By  the  spirits  of  the  slain, 
Swear  we  now,  our  Southern  heroes 

Shall  not  thus  have  died  in  vain. 

Wide  and  deep  the  breach  between  us, 

Rent  by  hatred's  poisoned  darts ! 
And  ye  cannot  now  cement  it, 

With  the  blood  from  Southern  hearts  ! 
Streams  of  gore  that  gulf  shall  widen, 

Running  deep  and  strong  and   red, 
Severing  us  from  you  forever, 

While  there  is  a  drop  to  shed. 


OF    THE     WAR.  261 

Think  ye,  we'll   brook  the  insults 

Of  your  fierce  and  ruffian  chief, 
Heaped  upon  our  dark-eyed  daughters 

Stricken  down   and  pale  with  grief? 
Think  ye,  while  astounded  nations 

Curse  such  malice,  we  will  bear 
Foulest  wrongs,  with  God  to  call  on, 

Arms  to  do,  and  hearts  to  dare  ? 

When  we  prayed  in  peace  to  leave  you, 

Answering  came  a  battle   cry  ! 
Then  we  swore  that  oath  which  freemen 

Never  swear  who  fear  to  die ; 
North-men,  come,  and  ye  shall  find  us 

Heart  to  heart,  and  hand  to  hand, 
Calling  to  the  God  of  battles, 

"  Freedom  and  our  native  land." 

July  22,  1862. 


13" 


262  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


THE    BRAVE    AT   HOME. 

The  maid  who  binds  her  warrior's  sash, 

And  smiling,  all  her  pain  dissembles, 
The  while  beneath  the   drooping  lash 

One  starry  tear-trop  hangs  and  trembles, 
Though  Heaven  alone  records  the   tear, 

And  fame  shall   never  know  her  story, 
Her  heart  has  shed  a  drop  as  dear, 

As  ever  dewed   the  field  of  glory  ! 

The  wife  who  girds  her  husband's  sword, 

'  Mid  little   ones  who  weep   and  wonder, 
And  bravely  speaks  the  cheering  word, 

What  tho'   her  heart  be  rent  asunder — 
Doomed  nightly  in  her  dreams  to  hear 

The  bolts  of   war  around  him  rattle, 
Has  shed  as  sacred  blood  as  e'er 

Was  poured  upon   the  plain  of  battle  ! 

The  mother  who  conceals  her  grief, 

While  to  her  breast  her  son  she  presses, 
Then  breathes  a  few  brave  words,  and  brief, 

Kissing  the  patriot  brow   she   blesses, 
With  no  one  but  her  secret  God 

To  know  the  pain  that  weighs  upon  her, 
Sheds  holy  blood  as  e'er  the  sod 

Received  on  Freedom's  field   of  honor  ! 


OF     THE     WAR.  263 


LITTLE   FOOTSTEPS. 

BY    MARY    J.     UPSHUU,    NORFOLK,    VA. 

I  sit  in  the  summer  moonlight, 

And  watch  the   flecked   floor, 
Where  the  sheen  and  the  shimmering  aspen  trees 

Make  shadows  across  the  door. 

And   I  list  and  list  for  a  footstep 

That  I  have  heard  long  ago, 
Tripping  the   summer  pavement, 

Treading  the  winter's    snow. 

Light  little  feet  where  are  you  ? 

Never  ye'll  come  again, 
Making  my  heart's  unfoldings 

Like  flowers  to  the  summer  rain. 

0  little  child  in  Heaven  ! 

Say,  do  the  fairy  feet 
Lave  in  the  seas  of  jasper  ? 

Traverse  the  golden  street  ? 

Wave  your  bright  angel  pinions, 

Fan  the  celestial  air, 
But  oh  !  for  the  little  footsteps 

If  ever  I  get  there  ! 


264  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Oh,  little   child  in  Heaven, 

If  thou  should'st  be  sent  to  greet 

The  home-bound,  let  me  but  listen 
To  the  sound  of  the  little  feet ! 


"MINDING    THE    GAP." 

BY     MOLLIE     E.     MOORE. 

There  is  a  radiant  beauty  on  the  hills, 

The  year  before  us  walks  with  added  bloom, 
But  ah  !  'tis  but  the  hectic  flush  that  lights 
The  pale  consumptive  to  an  early  tomb  ; 
The  dying  glory  that  plays  around  the  day 
When  that  which  made  it  bright  hath  fled  away ! 

A  mistiness  broods  in  the  air — the  swell 

Of  east  winds  slowly  weaving  autumn's   pall, 
With   dirge-like  sadness  wanders  up  the   dell  ; 
And  red  leaves  from  the  maple  branches  fall 
With  scarce  a  sound  !  'Tis  strange,  mysterious  rest, 
Hath  nature  bound  the  Lotus  to  her  breast  ? 

But  hark  !    a  long  and  mellow  cadence  wakes 

The  echoes  from  their  rocks  !   how  clear  and  high 

Among  the  rounded  hills  its  gladness  breaks, 
And  floats  like   incense  toward  the  vaulted  sky  ! 


OF     THE     WAR.  265 

It  is  the  harvest  anthem  !    a  triumph  tone, 
It  rises  like  these   swelling  notes   of  old, 
That  welcomed   Ceres  to  her  golden   throne, 

When  through  the  crowded  streets  the  chariots  rolled. 
It  is  the   laborer's  chorus,  for  the  reign 
Of  plenty  hath  begun — the  golden  grain  ! 

How  cheeks  are  flushed  with  triumph,  as  the  fields 

Bow  to  our  feet  with  riches !     How  the   eyes 
Grow  full  with  gladness  as  they  yield 
Their  ready  treasures.     How  hearts  arise 
To  join  with  gladness  in  the  mellow  chime, 
"  The  harvest  time — the  glorious  harvest  time  !  " 

It  is  the   harvest,  and  the   gathered  corn 

Is  piled  in  yellow  heaps  about  the  field, 

And  homely  wagons  from  the  break   of  morn 

Until  the   sun  glows  like  a  crimson   shield 

In  the  far  West,  go  staggering  homeward  bound, 
And  with  the  dry  husks  strew  the  trampled  ground. 

It  is  the  harvest,  and  an  hour  ago 

I  sat  with  half-closed  eyes  beside  the  "  spring," 
And  listened  idly  to  its  dreamy   flow, 

And  heard  afar  the  gay  and  ceaseless  ring 
Of  song  and  labor  from  the  harvesters — 
Heard  faint  and  careless  as  a  sleeper  hears. 

My  little  brother   came    with  bounding  step, 

And  bent  him  low  beside   the   shaded  stream, 
And  from  the  fountains  drank  with  eager  lip- 
While   I,   half-rousing  from  my   dream, 

Asked  where  he'd  spent  this  still  September  day, 
"Chasing  the  wrens,   or  on  the  hills  at  play?" 


266  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Backward  he  tossed  his  golden  head,  and  threw 

A  glance   disdainful  on   my   idle  hands, 
And  with  a  proud  light  in   his   eye  of  blue 
Answered,   as   deep  his  bare  feet  in  the  sands 

He  thrust,  and  waved  his  baby  hand  in  scorn — 
"  Ah,    no  !    down  at  the   cornfield  since  the  morn 

I've  been 
Minding  the  gap!" 

"Minding  the  gap!"     My  former   dream  was  gone, 

Another  in   its  place  !      I   saw  a  scene 
As  fair  as  e'er  an  autumn  sun.   shone  on — 

Down  by  a  meadow,  large,  and  smooth,  arid  green, 
Two  little  barefoot  boys,  sturdy   and  strong, 
And    fair,  here   in    the   sun,   the  whole  day  long, 
Lay  on   the   curling  grass, 
Minding  the   gap  !* 

Minding  the  gap  !    and  the  years  swept  by 

Like  moments,   I  beheld  those   boys   again — 
And  patriot  hearts  within   their   breasts  beat  high, 
And  on  their  breasts  was  set  the  seal  of  men, 
And  guns  were  on  their  shoulders,  and  they  trod 
Back  and  forth,  with  measured  step,  upon  the  sod 
Near  where   our   army   slept, 
Minding   the  gap  ! 


*  Our  town  readers  will  have  to  be  told  that  at  harvest  time  in  the  rural  dis 
tricts,  alength  or  two  of  the  fence  is  let  down  to  allow  the  wagons  to  pass  to  and 
fro.  To  keep  cattle  out,  the  children  are  set  "Minding  the  Gap."  This  has 
given  our  sweet  young  poetess  a  text  for  one  of  her  finest  gems.— EDITOR 
HOUSTON  TELEGRAPH. 


OF    THE     WAR.  267 

Minding  the  gap  !      My  brothers,   while  you  guard 
The   open  places  where  a  foe  might  creep — 

A  mortal   foe — 0  !    mind  those  other  gaps — 
The  open  places  of  the  heart — my   brothers, 
Watch  over  them  ! 

The   open  places  of  the  heart — the  gaps 

Made  by  the  ruthless  hand   of  Doubt  and  Care — 
Could  we  but  keep,  like  holy  sentinels, 

Innocence  and  Faith  forever  guarding  there — 
Ah  !    how  much  of  woe   and   shame  would  flee, 
Affrighted  back  from  their  blest  purity  ! 

No  gloom  or  sadness  from  the  outer  world, 
With   feet   unholy  then  would  wander  in, 

To  grasp  the  golden  treasures  of  the  soul,' 
And  bear  them  forth  to  sorrow  and  to  sin ! 
The  heart's  proud  fields !  its  harvest  full  and  fair, 
Innocence  and  Love  could  we   but  keep  them  there, 
Minding  the  gaps ! 


268  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


WHY  THE  ROBIN'S  BREAST  WAS  RED. 

The  following  exquisite  little  gem,  originally  appearing  in  the  Pa 
cificator,  a  Catholic  journal,  is  from  the  pen  of  James  R.  Eandall, 
Esq.  : 

The  Saviour,  bowed  beneath  his  cross, 

Clomb  up  the  dreary  hill, 
And  from  the  agonizing  wreath 

Ran  many  a  crimson   rill ; 
The   cruel   Roman  thrust  him  on 

With  unrelenting  hand — 
'Till,'  staggering  slowly   'mid  the  crowd, 

He  fell  upon  the  sand. 

A  little  bird  that  warbled  near, 

That  memorable  day, 
Flitted  around  and  strove  to  wrench 

One  single  thorn  away ; 
The  cruel  spike  impaled  his  breast, 

And  thus  'tis  sweetly  said, 
The  Robin  has  his  silver  vest 

Incarnadined  with  red. 

Ah,  Jesu  !  Jesu  !  Son  of  man  ! 

My  dolor  and  my  sighs 
Reveal  the  lesson  taught  by  this 

Winged  Ishmael  of  the  skies. 


OF    THE     WAR.  269 

I,  in  the  palace   of  delight, 

Or  cavern  of  despair, 
Have  plucked  no  thorns  from  thy  dear  brow, 

But  planted  thousands  there ! 


LINES    ON    THE    DEATH  OF  ANNIE  CARTER 
LEE, 

Daughter  of  General  Robert  E.  Lee,  C.  S.  A.,  who  died  at  Jones' 
Springs,  Warren  county,  N.  C.,  October  20th    1862. 

BY    TEN ELL A. 

"  Earth  to  earth,   and  dust  to   dust, 

Saviour    in   thy  word  we  trust. 

Sow  we   now   our  precious  grain, 

Thou  shalt  raise  it  up  again. 

Plant  we  the  terrestrial  root 

Which  shall  bear  celestial  fruit ; 

Lay  a  bud  within  a  tomb, 

That  a  flower  in   Heaven  may  bloom. 

Severed  are  no  tender  ties 

Though  in  Death's  embrace  she  lies, 

For  the  lengthened   chain  of  love 

Stretches  to  her  home  above. 

Mother,   in  thy  bitter  grief, 

Let  this  thought  bring  sweet  relief, 


270  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Mother  of  an   angel  now — 

God   Himself  hath  crowned  thy  brow 

With   the  thorns  the  Savior  wore, 

Blessed   art  thou   evermore, 

Unto  him  thou  dost  resign 

A  portion   of  the  life  was  thine. 

"  Earth  to  earth,   and  dust  to  dust," 
Sore  the  trial — sweet  the  trust, 
Father — thou  who  seest  Death 
Reaping  grain  at  every  breath, 
As  the  sickle  sharp  he  wields 
O'er  our   bloody  battle-fields, 
Murmur  not  that  now  he  weaves 
This  sweet  flower  in  his  sheaves ; 
Taken   in   her  early  prime, 
Gathered  in  the  summer  time ; 
Autumn's   blast  she  shall  not  know, 
Never  shrink  from  winter's  snow. 
Sharp  the  pang  which  thou  must  feel, 
Sharper  than   the   foeman's  steel, 
For  thy  fairest  flower  is  hid 
Underneath  the   coffin's  lid. 
O'er  her  grave  thou  dropst  no  tear, 
Warrior  stern  must  thou  appear, 
Crushing  back  the  tide   of  grief 
Which  in  vain   demands  relief. 
Louder  still  thy  country  cries, 
At  thy  feet  it   bleeding  lies, 
And  before  the  patriot  now, 
Husband,  Father,  both  must  bow. 


OF     THE     WAR.  271 

But  unnumbered  are  thy  friends, 
And  from  many  a  home  ascends 
Earnest,   heartfelt,  prayers  for  thee, 
"As  thy  days  thy  strength  may  be." 


AT  THE  LAST. 

The  stream  is  calmest  when   it  nears  the   tide, 
And  flowers  the  sweetest  at  the  eventide, 
And  birds  most  musical  at  close  of  day, 
And  saints  divinest  when  they  pass  away. 

Morning  is  lovely,  but  a  holier  charm 
Lies  folded  close  in   evening's  robes  of  balm ; 
And  weary  man  must  ever  love  her  best, 
For  Morning  calls  to  toil,  but  Night  to  rest. 

She  comes  from  Heaven,  and  on  her  wings  doth  bear 
A  holy  fragrance,   like  the  breath  of  prayer ; 
Footsteps  of  angels  follow  in   her  trace, 
To  shut  the  weary  eye  of  Day  in  peace. 

All  things  are  hushed  before  her  as  she  throws 
O'er  earth  and  sky  her  mantle  of  repose ; 
There  is  a  calm,  a  beauty  and  a  power, 
That  Morning  knows  not,  in  the  Evening  hour. 


272  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

"Until  the  Evening"  we  must  weep  and  toil, 
Plough  life's  stern  furrow,   dig  the  weedy  soil, 
Tread  with  sad  feet  our  rough  and  thorny  way, 
And  bear  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  Day. 

Oh !  when  our  sun  is  setting,  may  we  glide, 
Like  Summer  Evening,   down  the  golden  tide ; 
And  leave  behind  us,  as  we  pass  away, 
Sweet,  starry  twilight  round  our  sleeping  clay. 


THE   LONG   AGO. 

This  poem  is  from  the  pen  of  Philo  Henderson,  who  was  born 
near  Charlotte,  Mecklenburg  county,  North  Carolina,  and  who 
died  in  early  manhood,  leaving  a  large  number  of  unpublished 
poems  of  rare  value  behind  him. 

Oh  !  a  wonderful  stream  is  the  river  of  Time, 

As  it  runs  through  the  realm  of  tears, 
With  a  faultless  rhythm  and  a  musical  rhyme, 
And  a  broader  sweep  and  a  surge  sublime, 
And  blends  with  the  ocean  of  years  ! 

How  the  winters  are  drifting  like  flakes  of  snow, 

And  the  summers  like  buds  between, 
And  the  ears  in  the  sheaf — so  they  come  and  they  go, 
On  the  river's  breast,  with  its  ebb  and  flow, 

As  it  glides  in  the  shadow  and  sheen  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  273 

There's  a  magical   Isle  in  the  river  of  Time, 

Where  the  softest  of  airs  are  playing  ; 
There's  a  cloudless  sky  and  a  tropical   clime, 
And  a   song  as  sweet  as  a  vesper  chime, 
And  the   Junes  with  the  roses  are  staying. 

And  the  name  of  this  Isle  is  Long  Ago, 

And  we  bury  our  treasures  there  ; 
There  are  brows  of  beauty,  and-  bosoms  of  snow, 
There   are  heaps  of  dust — but  we  loved  them  so  ! 

There  are  trinkets  and  tresses  of  hair. 

There  are  fragments  of  song  that  nobody  sings, 

And  a  part  of  an  infant's  prayer ; 
There's  a  lute  unswept,  and  a  harp  without  strings, 
There  are  broken  vows  and  pieces  of   rings, 

And  the  garments  she  used  to  wear. 

There  are  hands  that  are  waved  when  the  fairy  shore 

By  the  mirage  is  lifted  in  air  ; 

And  we  sometimes  hear  through  the  turbulent  roar, 
Sweet  voices  heard  in  the   days  gone  before, 

When  the  wind  down  the  river  is  fair. 

Oh  !   remembered  for  aye  be  that  blessed  Isle, 

All  the   day   of  life   till  night; 

When  the   evening  comes  with  its  beautiful  smile, 
And  our  eyes  are  closing  to  slumber  awhile, 

May  that  '  greenwood  of  soul  be  in  sight.' 


274  SOUTHERN    P  0  E  JI S 


CHRISTMAS— 1863. 

P,Y    IIKNRY    TIMROD. 

How  grace  this  hallowed   day  ? 
Shall  happy  bells  from  yonder  ancient  spire 
Send  their  glad  greetings  to  each  Christmas  fire, 

Round  which  the  children   play  ? 

Alas  !    for   many  a  moon 

That  tongueless  *  tower  hath  cleaved  the  Sabbath  air, 
Mute  as  an   obelisk   of  ice,   a  glare 

Beneath  an  Arctic  moon. 

Shame  to  the  foes  that  drown 
Our  psalms  of  worship  with  their  impious  drum ! 
The  sweetest  chimes  in  all  the  land  lie  dumb 

In  some  far  rustic  town. 

There  let  us  think  they  keep 
Of  the  dead  yules,  which  here  beside  the  sea 
They've  ushered  in  with   old  world  English  glee, 

Some  echoes  in   their  sleep. 

How  shall  we  grace  the  day  ? 

With  feast  and  song  and   dance  and  antique   sports, 
And  shouts  of  happy  children  in  the  courts, 

And  tales  of  ghost  and  fay  ? 


*  St.   Michael's,  the  oldest  Church   in    the  Southern   States.     The   chime  of 
bells  was  imported  before  the  Revolution. 


OF    THE     WAR.  275 

Is  there  indeed  a  door 

Where  the  old  pastimes,  with  their  cheerful  noise 
And  all  the  merry  round  of  Christmas  joys, 

Could   enter  as  of   yore  ? 

Would  not  some  pallid  face 
Look  in  upon  the  banquet,  calling  up 
Dread  shapes  of  battle   in  the  wassail  cup, 

And  trouble   all  the  place  ? 

How  could  we  bear  the   mirth, 
While  some  loved  reveller  of  a  year  ago 
Keeps  his  mute  Christmas  now,  beneath  the  snow 

In  cold  Virginian  earth  ? 

How   shall  we  grace  the   day  ? 
Ah  !  let  the  thought  that  on  this  holy  morn 
The  Prince  of  Peace,  the  Prince  of  Peace  was  born, 

Employ  us  while  we  pray. 

Pray  for  the  peace,  which  long 
Hath  left  this  tortured  land,  and  haply  now 
Holds  its  white  court  on  some  far  mountain's  brow, 

There  hardly  safe  from  wrong. 

Let  every  sacred  fane 

Call  its  sad  votaries  to  the   shrine   of  God, 
And  with  the  cloister   and  the  tented   sod 

Join   in  the  solemn   strain  ! 

With  pomp   of  Roman   form, 

With  the  grave  ritual  brought  from  England  shore, 
And  with  the  simple  faith   which  asks  no  more 

Than  that  the  heart  be  warm. 


276  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

He,  who  till  time  shall  cease, 

Shall  watch  that  earth  where  once  not  all  in  vain 
He  died  to  give  us  peace,  will  not  disdain 

A  prayer,  whose  theme  is  peace. 

Perhaps,   ere  yet  the   Spring 
Hath  died  into  the   Summer — over  all 
The  land,  the  peace  of  His  vast  love  shall  fall   . 

Like  some  protecting  wing. 

Oh  !   ponder  what  it  means  ! 
Oh  !   turn  the  rapturous  thought  in   every  way, 
Oh  !   give  the  vision  and  the  fancy  play, 

And  shape  the   coming  scenes. 

Peace  in  the  quiet  dells, 

Made  rankly  fertile  by  the   blood  of  men, 

Peace  in  the  wood  and  in  the  lonely  glen, 

Peace  in  the  peopled  vale  ; 

Peace  in  the   crowded  town, 
Peace  in  the  thousand  fields  of  waving   grain, 
Peace  in  the  highway   and  the  flowery   lane, 

Peace   on  the  wind  swept  down  ; 

Peace   on  the  farthest  seas, 

Peace  in  our  sheltered  bays  and  ample  streams, 
Peace  whereso'er  our  starry  garland  gleams, 

And  peace  in   every  breeze. 

Peace   on  the  whirring  marts, 

Peace  where  the  scholar  thinks,  the  hunter  roams, 
Peace  !  God  of  peace  !  peace,  peace  in  all  our  homes, 

And  peace  in  all  our  hearts  ! 


Ob'     THE     WAR.  277 


CHARLESTON. 

BY    HENRY    TIMROD. 

Calm  as  that  second  summer  which  precedes 

The  first  fall  of  the  snow, 
In  the  broad  sunlight  of  heroic  deeds, 

The  city  bides  the  foe. 

As  yet  behind  their  ramparts  stern  and  proud, 

Her  bolted  thunders  sleep — 
Dark  Sumter,  like  a  battlemented  cloud, 

Looms  o'er  the  solemn  deep. 

No  Calpe'  frowns  from  lofty  cliff  or  scar, 

To  guard  the  holy  strand, 
But  Moultrie  holds  in  leash  her  dogs  of  war, 

Above  the  level  sand. 

And  down  the  dunes  a  thousand  guns  lie  couched 

Unseen,  beside  the  flood — 
Like  tigers  in  some  orient  jungle  crouched, 

That  wait  and  watch  for  blood. 

Meanwhile  thro'  streets  still  echoing  with  trade, 
"Walk  grave  and  thoughtful  men, 

Whose  hands  may  one  day  wield  the  patriot's  blade 
As  lightly  as  the  pen. 
14 


278  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

And  maidens,  whose  bright  glances  would  grow  dim 

At  sight  of  bleeding  wound, 
Seem  each  one  to  have  caught  the  strength  of  him 

Whose  sword  she  proudly  bound. 

Thus  girt  without  and  garrisoned  at  home, 

Day  patient,  following  day, 
Old  Charleston  looks  from  roof  and  spire  and  dome, 

Across  the  tranquil  bay. 

Ships  through  a  hundred  foes,  from  Saxon  lands 

And  spicy  Indian  ports, 
Bring  Saxon  steel  and  iron  to  her  hands, 

And  summer  to  her  courts. 

But  still  along  yon  dim  Atlantic  line, 

The  only  hostile  smoke, 
Creeps  like  a  harmless  mist  above  the.  brine, 

From  some  frail  floating  oak. 

Shall  the  spring  dawn,  and  she,  still  clad  in  smiles, 

And  wTith  an  unscathed  brow, 
Rest  on  the  strong  arms  of  her  palm-crowned  isles, 

As  fair  and  free  as  now  ? 

We  know  not :    in   the  temple  of  the  Fates 

God  has  inscribed  His  doom ; 
And  all  untroubled  in  her  faith,  she  waits 

Her  triumph — or  her  tomb. 

January,  1863. 


OF    THE     WAR.  279 


BY   THE   CAMP   FIRE. 


15Y    VIOLA. 


The  snow   has  fallen  thick   and  soft, 

The  cold  wind  mourns  in  murmurs  harsh 

We've  marched   all   day   as  only  those 
Who   follow   Stonewall   Jackson  march. 

I  bore  it  all  with   patient   strength, 

And  cheered  my  men  with  spirits  light — 

Bear  with  me,   if  within  my  heart 
I  feel  a  little  sad  to-night. 

I'm  thinking   of  my   distant  home, 
That   Eden  spot  of  earth   to  me, 

And  something  comes  across  my   eyes, 
I   do  not  care  my  men  should  see. 

I  shut  them  tight,   while   o'er  my  mind, 
As  in  the   old  magician's  glass, 

My  life,   with  all   its  varied  scenes, 
In  changing  shadows  seems  to   pass. 

I  see  myself  a  happy   child, 

With  spirit  high,   untouched  by  pain, 
I   sing  and   shout   in   frolic   glee, 

A   merry   hearted   boy   again. 


280  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

The  boy  has  changed  into  the  man — 
A  glowing  beam  from  Heaven  above 

Illumes  my  life,   and  o'er  it  sheds 

The  golden   light  of  youth's  first  love. 

A  fairy  vision  fills  the   glass, 

And  holds  my  sense  in  rapt  delight, 

I   see   her   in   her  loveliness, 
As  on   our  happy  bridal  night. 

From  out  her  snowy,   mist-like  veil, 
Her  soft  eyes  shine  with  starry  ray, 

While  pearls  and   orange   blossoms  gleam 
On   neck  and  brow  more  pure   than  they. 

We  kneel  before  the   altar  now, 
I  hold  her  little  trembling  hand, 

And  vow  a  faith  for  life  and  death, 
And  seal  it  with  a  golden   band. 

Oh  !    days  of  love  and  happiness — 
Oh  !    life   of  pure  unearthly  bliss — 

How   dark  your  purple  memory   makes 
The  horrors   of  a  night  like  this ! 

I  want  you,   darling — Oh  !    I  faint 
And  shrink  before  my  bitter   cup, 

Come,   cheer  me  with  your  happier  thought- 
Come,   bear  my  .drooping  spirit  up  ! 

She  comes,   she  takes  me  to  her  heart, 
And  in   low   accents  soft  and  mild, 

She  lulls  my  wearied  frame  to  rest, 
And  soothes  me  like  a  little  child. 


OF    THE     WAR.  281 

She  points  my  soul  to   thoughts  sublime, 

And  fills  it  with  the   noblest  aim; 
She  kneels  and  prays  to  God  for  me, 

Then  leaves  me  to  myself  again. 

Not  fainting  now,  but  nerved  with  strength 
To  bear  what  sufferings   God  may  send — 

To  shape  my  life  in  noble  acts, 

'Til  He  shall  please  that  life  to  end. 

The  trumpet  sounds !     To  arms,  my  men ! 

Our  haughty  foes  in  triumph  come, 
We'll  meet  them  with  a  welcome  stern, 

Our  battle  cry,  "the  loved  at  home!" 


282  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


JOHN    PELHAM. 

BY    JAMES    R.    RANDALL. 

Just  as  the  Spring  came  laughing   through  the  strife, 

With  all  its  gorgeous  cheer, 
In  the  bright  April  of  historic  life 

Fell  the  great  cannonier. 

The  sudden  lulling  of  a  hero's  breath, 

His  bleeding  country  weeps — 
Hushed  in  the  alabaster  arms  of  Death, 

Our  young  Marcellus  sleeps. 

Nobler  and  grander  than  the  Child  of  Rome, 

Curbing  his  chariot  steeds, 
The  knightly  scion  of  a  Southern  home, 

Dazzled  the  land  with  deeds. 

Gentlest  and  bravest  in  the  battle  brunt, 

The  champion  of  the  Truth, 
He  bore  his  banner  to   the  very  front 

Of  our  immortal  youth. 

A  clang  of  sabres  'mid  Virginian  snow, 

The  fiery  rush  of  shells — 
And  there's  a  wail  of  immemorial  woe 

In  Alabama  dells. 


OF    THE     WAR.  283 

The  pennon   drops  that  led  the  sacred  band 

Along  the   crimson  field  ; 
The  meteor  blade  sinks  from  the  nerveless  hand, 

Over  the  spotless  shield. 

We  gazed  and  gazed  upon  that  beauteous  face, 

While  round  the  lips  and  eyes, 
Couched  in  the  marble  slumber,  flashed  the  grace 

Of  a  divine  surprise. 

0,  Mother  of  a  blessed  soul  on  high ! 

Thy  tears  may  soon  be   shed — 
Think  of  thy  boy  with  princes   of  the  sky, 

Among  the   Southern  dead. 

How  must  he  smile  on  this  dull  world  beneath, 

Fevered  with  swift  renown — 
He — with  the  martyr's  amaranthine  wreath, 

Twining  the  victor's  crown ! 

KELLEY'S  FORD,  March  17,  1863. 


284  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


A  PLEDGE  TO  LEE. 

WRITTEN  FOR  A  KENTUCKY    COMPANY,    BY    MRS.  C.    A.    WARFIELD, 
OF    KY. 

We  pledge  thee,  LEE! 

In  water  or  wine, 

In  blood  or  in  brine, 

What  matter  the   sign? 
Whether  brilliantly  glowing, 
Or  darkly  o'erflowing, 

So  the  cup  is  divine 
That  we  fill  to  thee! 

Vanquished — victorious, 

Gloomy  or  glorious, 
Fainting  and  bleeding, 
Advancing,  receding, 
Lingering  or  leading, 
Captive  or  free ; 

With  swords  raised  on   high, 

With  hearts  nerved  to  die, 
Or  to  grasp  victory; 
Hand  to  hand — knee  to  knee, 
With  a  wild  three  times  three 
We  pledge   thee,  LEE  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  285 

We  pledge  thee,  chief ! 

In  the  name  of  our  nation, 

Her  wide   devastation, 

Her  sore  desolation, 
Her  grandeur  and  grief! 

Where'er  thou  warrest 

When    our  need  is  the  sorest, 

Or  in  Fortress  or  forest, 
Bidest  thy  time  ; 

Thou — Heaven  elected, 

Thou — Angel-protected, 

Thou — Brother  selected, 
What  e'er  thy  fate  be, 
Our  trust  is  in  thee, 
And  our   faith  is  sublime. 

With  swords  raised  on  high, 

With  hearts  nerved  to  die, 
Or  to  grasp  victory, 

Hand  to  hand — knee  to  knee, 

With  a  wild  three  times  three, 
We  pledge  thee,   LEE  ! 


14* 


286  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


CHARADE. 

The  following  Charade  is  given,  not  so  much  for  its  poetical  beauty, 
as  for  the  name  which  it  suggests  : 

My   FIRST  is  seen,   on  a  field  of  green, 

And  a  lucky  elf  is  he, 

The  joy    and  sport  of  all  the  court, 

Though  a  SQUIRE  of  low  degree. 

He  has  no  gold,   (though   I  arn  told 

He  strips  the  richest  bare,) 

But  four  gray  suits  and  a  pair  of  boots, 

Whilst  kings  his  playmates  are. 

He's  rarely  LOW,   he'd  have  you  know, 

E'en   when   he  maketh  GAME, 

He  wields  the  power  of  Court  and  BOWER  ! 

Oh,  guess  that  GALLANT'S  name. 

The  tenderest  tie   that  you  or  I 

May  ever  hope  to  own, 

A  precious  trust  of  dust  to   dust, 

Is  by  my  SECOND   shown. 

My  whole  shall  cause  the   world  to  pause, 

And  gaze   with  wondering  eyes — 

A  living  NAME,  a  deathless  FAME, 

A   soldier,   brave   and  wise. 


OF    THE     WAR.  287 


STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  WAY. 

We  reproduce  a  lyric  which  was  extremely  popular  in  many  parts 
of  the  South.  The  unknown  author  draws  a  picture  which  ad 
dresses  itself  at  once  to  the  eye,  and  through  the  eye  to  the  heart. 
This  poem  deserves  to  be  preserved  among  the  literary  relics  of 
the  times.  Every  Southerner  and  Northerner  of  taste  will  read  it 
with  interest : 

Come,  stack  arms,  men,   pile   on   the  rails, 

Stir  up   the  camp   fires  bright, 
No  matter  if  the   canteen  falls, 

We'll  make  a  roaring  night! 
Here   Shenandoah  brawls  along, 

There  lofty  Blue   Ridge  echoes  strong, 
To  swell  the   brigade's  rousing  song 

Of  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way." 

We  see  him  now — the   old  slouched  hat 

Cocked   o'er  his  eye   askew ; 
The   shrewd  dry  smile — the   speech  so  pat — 

So  calm,   so  blunt,   so  true. 
The  "  Blue  Light  Elder  "  knows  them  well, 
Says  he,   "That's  Banks — he's  fond  of  shell, 
Lord  save  his  soul!    wre'll  give  him" — well, 

That's  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way. 

Silence  !    ground  arms  !    kneel  all !    caps  off ! 

Old  Blue  Light's  going  to  pray, 
Strangle  the   fool  who  dares  to  scoff! 

Attention  !  its  his  way  : 


288  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Appealing  from  his  native  sod, 
In  forma  pauperis,  to  God — 
"  Lay  bare  thine  arm,  stretch  forth  thy  rod 
Amen!"    that's  Stone-wall  Jackson's  way! 

He's  in  the  saddle  now !  fall  in  ! 

Steady  !    the  whole  brigade  ! 
Hill's  at  the  ford,  cut  off!    We'll  win 

His  way  out  ball  and  blade. 
What  matter  if  our  shoes  are  worn  ? 
What  matter  if  our  feet  are  torn  ? 
Quick  step!    we're  with  him  e'er  the  morn!" 

That's  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way ! 

The  sun's  bright  glances  rout  the  mists 

Of  morning — and  by  George ! 
There'*s  Longstreet  struggling  in  the  lists, 

Hemmed  in  an  ugly  gorge. 
Pope   and  his  columns  whipped  before, 
"  Bay'nets  and  grape!"    hear  Stonewall  roar; 
"Charge,  Stewart! — pay   off  Ashby's  score!" 
Is   "  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way  !  " 

Ah  !    maiden,  wait  and  watch  and  yearn 

For  news  of  Stonewall's  band, 
Ah !    widow  read  with  eyes  that  burn, 

That  ring  upon  thy  hand  ! 
Ah !    wife,   sew   on,   pray  on,   hope  on, 
Thy  life   shall   not  be   all   forlorn, 
The  foe  had  better  ne'er  been  born 

Than  get  in   "Stonewall's  Way." 


OF     THE     WAR.  289 


STONEWALL'S     SABLE     SEERS.* 

BY    MKS.     C.    A.    WARFIELD,     BEKCilMOKE,     OLDHAM     C    UNTY,     KY. 

"  I'll  tell  you  wat,   ole  Cato," 

Quoth  GufF    by  the  bright  camp   fire, 
"  We's  gwine  to  hab  a  battle ; 

Nebber  min'   dis  mud  an'   mire, 
Nebber  min'   dis  rain  wat  is  Tallin' 

EnufF  to  melt  de  stones, 
We's  gwine  to  hab  a  battle 

I  feels  it  in  my  bones. 

"You  passes  fur  a  prophit ! 

I'se  heerd  dat  all  my  life ; 
An'   you   gibs  me  de   name   ob   'Foolish' 

Before  my  berry  wife. 
But  fur  all  dat — I  tells  you — 

(Does  you  hear  me,  Cato  Jones  ? ) 
We's  gwine  to   hab  a  battle, 

I  feels  it  in  my  bones ! " 

Then  up  arose   old  Cato, 

That  swart,  yet  reverend  sage, 

With  hair  as  white   as  lamb's  wool, 
And  the  stiffened  limbs  of  age 

*  From  a  well  authenticated  anecdote 


290  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Yet  stately   in  his  presence, 

And  stalwart  in  his  frame, 

A  man   in  his  Maker's  image, 

And  worthy  his   Roman   name. 

He  grasps  his  thorn-stick  tightly, 

As  he  stood  above  the  fire, 
With   a  face   in  which   derision, 

Was  blended  well  with  ire ; 
Then  gazing  down  on   Cuffy 

With   an  eye  intense  with  scorn, 
He   spoke  these  words  of  wisdom — 

"  You  feels   it.    try   a  horn  !  " 

"Does  you  tink  de  great   Commander, 

Means  such  as  you  to  know, 
What  orders  he   gibs   his  captins 

In    de  night  time,   Cuffy  Crow  ? 
You  hears   de   masta  prayin', 

You  listens  wen  he  groans, 
And  dats  de  way  dis  battle 

Am  stirrin'   in   your  bones. 

"  I  seed  your  bead  eyes  twinklin', 

About  de  crack   ob  day — 
When  de  masta  stopped  his  groanin:, 

And  'pose  his  mind  to**pray. 
But  I  tought  you  knewed  your  manners. 

Too  well  to  see  or  hear, 
De  soldier  in  de  presence 

Ob  his  hebbenly   brigadier ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  291 

"He  prayed  like  dat  old  King  David 

Wat  loved  de  Lord  so  well ; 
He  called  on  de  God  ob  battles 

To  cus  dem  houns   ob  hell. 
I  felt  my  bar  uprisin' 

Like  Job's,   upon  my  head, 
When  he   'voked  de  precious  sperits, 

Ob  de  ole  Virginny   dead. 

"  No  organ  in  white   folks'    churches 

Ebber  pealed  so  grand  a  sound, 
As  the  masta's  voice  discoursin' 

'Bout  habbin'   Satan  bound. 
He  prayed  like   dat  holy   Samuel, 

Wat  broke  de  pride   ob  Saul — 
Den  I  knewed  de  white  trash  Linkum, 

Boun'   to  hab  anoder  fall ! 

"  Dis  day  dese  words  am  proven, 

We  goes  to  meet   de   foe, 
It  takes  no  nigga  prophit, 

To  guess  dat — Cuffy   Crow. 
For  whenever  de  masta's  wakeful, 

And  whenever  he  prays  and  groans, 
Why  dem  dat  lies  by  his  camp  fire 

Feel  battle  in  dere   bones  !"f 


t  One  of  Stonewall  Jackson's   serving-men  made  these  very  observations. 


-    -  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

RIDING   A   RAID. 

AIR — Bonny  Dundee. 

'Tis  old  Stonewall  the  Rebel  that  leans  on  his  sword, 
And  while  we  are  mounting  prays  low  to  the  Lord  ; 
Now  each  cavalier  who  loves  honor  and  right, 
Let   him  follow  the  feather  of  Stuart  to-night. 
Come,  tighten  your  girths  and  slacken  your  rein, 
Come,  buckle  your  blanket  and  holster  again. 
Try  the  click  of  your  trigger  and  balance  your  blade, 
For  he  must  ride  sure  who  goes  riding  a  raid. 

Now  gallop,   now  gallop,  to  swim  or  to  ford  ! 

Old  Stonewall  still  watching,  prays  low  to  the  Lord. 

Good-bye,   dear  old   Rebel,   the  river's   not  wide, 

And  Maryland's  lights  in  the  window's  do  shine. 
Come,  tighten  your  girths  and  slacken  your  rein, 
Come,   buckle  your  blanket  and  holster  again, 
Try  the  click  of  your  trigger  and  balance  your  blade, 
For  he  must  ride  sure  who  goes  riding  a  raid. 

Then  gallop,  then  gallop  by  ravine  and  rocks, 
"Who  would  bar  up  the  way  takes  his  toll  in  hard  knocks, 
For  with  these  points  of  steel  up  the  lines  of  old  Penn, 
"We  have  made  some  fine  strokes  and  will  make  'em  again. 
Come,   tighten  your  girths  and  slacken  your  rein, 
Come,  buckle  your  blanket  and  holster  again, 
Try  the  click  of  your  trigger  and  balance  your  blade, 
For  he  must  ride  sure  who  goes  riding  a  raid. 


OF     THE     WAR.  -93 


THE   LOXE   SENTRY. 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Moore,  of  Richmond,  in  a  sermon  in  memory  of  the 
much  loved  and  lamented  Stonewall  Jackson,  narrates  the  fol 
lowing  incident : 

'•  Previous  to  the  first  battle  of  Manossas.  when  the  troops  under 
Stonewall  Jackson  had  made  a  forced  march,  on  halting  at  night 
they  fell  on  the  ground  exhausted  and  faint.  The  hour  arrived 
for  setting  the  watch  f •  r  the  night.  The  officer  of  the  day  went 
to  the  General's  tent,  and  said  : 

"  '  General,  the  men  are  all  wearied,  and  there  is  not  one  but 
is  asleep.  Shall  I  wake  them  ?  ' 

••  -Xo."  said  the  noble  Jackson.  :  let  them  sleep,  and  I  will 
watch  the  camp  to-night.' 

"And  all  night  Ions'  he  rode  round  that  lonely  camp,  the  ona 
lone  sentinel  for  that  brave,  but  weary  and  silent  body  of  Vir 
ginia  heroes.  And  when  glorious  morning  broke,  the  soldiers 
awoke  fresh  and  ready  for  action,  all  unconscious  of  the  noble 
vigils  kept  over  their  slumbers.'-' 


BY    JAMES    R.    RANDALL. 

'Twas  as  the  dying  of  the  day, 

The  darkness  grew  so  still, 
The  drowsy  pipe  of  evening  birds 

Was  hushed  upon  the  hill. 
Athwart  the  shadows  of  the  vale 

Slumbered  the  men  of  Alight, 
And  one  lone  sentry  paced  his  rounds 

To  watch  the  camp  that  night. 


294  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

A  grave  and  solemn  man  was  lie, 

With  deep  and  sombre  brow  ; 
The  dreamful  eyes  seemed  hoarding  up, 

Some  unaccomplished  vow.  ' 
The  wistful  glance  peered  o'er  the  plain, 

Beneath  the  starry  light, 
And,  with  the  murmured  name  of  God, 

He  watched  the  camp  that  night. 

The  future  opened  unto  him, 

Its  grand  and  awful  scroll — 
Manassas  and  the  valley  march 

Came  heaving  o'er  his  soul ; 
Richmond  and  Sharpsburg  thundered  by, 

With  that  tremendous  fight 
That  gave  him  to  the  angel  host, 

Who  watched  the  camp  that  night. 

We  mourn  for  him,  who  died  for  us, 

With   one   resistless  moan, 
While   up   the  Valley  of  the  Lord 

He  marches  to  the  Throne  ! 
He  kept  the  faith  of  men  and  saints 

Sublime,  and  pure,   and  bright ; 
He  sleeps — and  all  is  well  with  him 

Who  watched  the  camp  that  night. 

Brothers  !  the  midnight  of  the  cause 

Is  shrouded  in   our  fate — 
The  demon  Goths  pollute  our  halls 

With  fire,  and  lust,  and  hate  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  295 

Be  strong — be  valiant — be  assured — 
Strike  home  for  Heaven  and  Right! 

The  soul  of  Jackson   stalks  abroad, 
And  guards  the  camp  to-night  f 


ON   ^HE   DEATH   OF  LIEUT.-GEN.  JACKSON. 
A   DIRGE. 

BY    MRS.    C.    A.    WARFIKLD,    OF    KY. 

Go  to  thy  rest,   great  chieftain, 

In  the   zenith  of  thy  fame, 
With  the  proud  heart  stilled  and  frozen, 

No  foeman   e'er  could  tame  ; 
With  the  eye  that  met  the  battle, 

As  the  eagle's  meets  the  sun, 
Rayless  beneath  its  marble  lid, 

Repose,  thou  mighty  one  ! 

Yet  ill  our  cause  could  spare  thee, 

And  'neath  the  blow  of  fate, 
That  struck  its  staunchest  pillar 

From  'neath  our  dome  of  State. 
Of  thee  as  of  the  Douglas, 

We  say  with  Scotland's  king, 
"  There  is  not  one  to  take  his  place 

In  all   the  knightly  ring  !  " 


296  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Thou  \vert  the  noblest  Captain 

Of  all  that  martial  host, 
That  front  the  haughty   Northman 

And  put  to  shame   his  boast ; 
Thou   wert  the  strongest  bulwark 

To  stay  the  tide   of  fight, 
The  name  thy   soldiers  gave  thee 

Bore  witness  of  thy  might. 

That  name  was  worth  a  legion 

In   charge   or  battle   call, 
'Twas  joy   to  see  the   cravens  fly 

At  the  shouting  of  "  Stonewall ! ' 
'Twas  pride  to  mark  thy  phalanx, 

Sweep  onward  like  a  blast, 
That  clears  the  leaves  of  autumn 

From  the  forest,  fierce  and  fast. 

'Twas  glory — 'twas  derision 

To  mark  the  bloody  rout, 
When,  as  signal  for  the  panic, 

The   Southern  yell  rang  out ; 
And  thou,  oh  mighty   leader, 

Breasting  the  battle's  van, 
Dids't  seem  amid  its  sullen  roar, 

More  denii-god  than  man. 

Go,  warrior,  it  is  over, 
No  more  shall  bugle  note 

Arouse  thee,  stern  and  prayerful, 
Nor  banner  o'er  thee  float ; 


OF    THE    WAR.  297 

Nor  sound  of  shell  and  cannon, 

Make   music   in  thy  ear, 
In   the   sultry  tide  of  battle — 

Thou   liest  on   thy  bier  ! 

We  may  not  weep  above  thee, 

This  is   no  time  for  tears, 
Thou  would'st  not  brook  their  shedding, 

Oh,  saint  among  thy  peers  ! 
Could'st  thou  look  from  yonder  Heaven, 

Above  us  smiling  spread, 
Thou  would'st  not  have  us  pause  for  grief, 

On  the  blood-stained  path  we  tread. 

Not  while   our  homes  in  ashes 

Lie  smouldering  on  the  sod, 
Not  while   our  houseless  women 

Send  up  wild  wails  to   God. 
Not  while  the  mad  fanatic 

Strews  ruin   in  his  track, 
Dare  any  Southron   give  the  rein 

To  feeling — and  look  back  ! 

No,  still   the  cry  is  onward, 

This  is  no  time  for  tears, 
No,  still  the  word  is  vengeance, 

Leave  ruth  for  coming  years. 
We  will  snatch  thy  glorious  banner 

From  thy  dead  and  stiffening  hand, 
(The  one  thy  foeman   spared  the  grave) 

And  bear  it  through  the  land. 


298  SOU  TIIER  N    P  0  EMS 

And  all  who  mark  it  streaming — 

Oh  !  soldier  of  the  cross  ! 
Shall  gird  them  with  a  fresh  resolve 

Of  loyalty  for  loss. 
Whilst  thou,  enrolled  a  martyr, 

Thy  sacred  mission    shown, 
Shalt  lay   the  record  of  our  wrongs 

Before  the   eternal  Throne  ! 


LINES  ON   THE   DEATH   OF   STONEWALL 
JACKSON. 

The   city  stirs  this  morn  ; 

From   careless  or  from   eager  lips  there  fleets 
A   rumor  onward  through  the  busy  streets, 

Of  one  to  burial  borne — 

A  man  of  heroic  mould, 

And  yet  the  starred  flag  in  the  dun  closed  air, 
Floats  at  its  highest  from  the  shut  house  of  prayer, 

No  passing  bell   is  tolled, 

And  men  move  on   as  on  yesterday,   nor   deem 
Their  words,  my  burning  tears,  have  but  one  bitter 
theme. 

For   he  is  gone  ! 

Gone  in   the  bright  meridian   of  his  fame  ! 
Gone   with  his  words  of  power,   his  soul  of  flame ! 

And   I   live   on, 


OF    THE     WAR.  299 

Groaning  that  I  should  live, 

That  all  the   worthless  thousands   round  me,   those 
Who  were,  but  dared  not  prove  themselves  his  foes, 

Death's  malice  should  reprieve  ; 
And  he,   the  victor-chief,  even  on  the  day 
Which  he  made  glorious,  yields,  subdued  to  its  dark 
sway. 

Oh  can  it  be,  that  name 

Which  brought  such  cheer  to  the  desponding  heart, 
Forcing  the  woe-closed  lips  in  smiles  apart, 

Whose  lightest  whisper  came 

Like  thoughts  of  Heaven's  suspended  wrath, 
Swift,  unexpected,   to  the  despot  Three 
Quailing  by  the  Potomac ;    can  it  be, 

That  on  the  crowded  path, 

Whereon  he  now  is  borne,  that  name  is  known, , 
A  synonym  of  woe  to  those  he  loved  alone  ? 

Still  hostile  watch-fires  glow 
Upon  his  native  soil,  still  the  artillery's  roar, 
Is  nightly  heard  'on  Rappahannock's  shore ; 

And  the  ungenerous  foe 

Still  doth  our  captive  cities  sway : 
But  oh,  no  more,  no  more,  shall  he  arise 
Before  the  morning  star  is  in  the  skies, 

And  ere  the  night  of  day 

Bring  down  to  naught  the  invader's  lying  boast, 
Offering  himself  and  his,  one  fiery  holacaust ! 

Forgive,  forgive,  oh,  Lord ! 
If  to  the  living  ingrate  as  unjust, 
There  lurks  in  my  sad  speech  that  weak  distrust 

By  him  I  mourn,  abhorred : 


300  SOU  THER  N    P  OEMS 

Not  such,  not  such  the  wail 
That  rises  from  his  own  loved  land  to-day. 
He  was  their  pride,  their  hope, —  Thou,   Lord,  their 
stay  : 

Nor  wilt  Thou  fail 

To  raise  for  them,  even  in  this  hour  of  blight, 
A  warrior  like  to  him,  as  strong,  as  sure  to  smite  ! 

We  bless  Thee,  Lord,  for  him 
Who,  in  a  day  of  cold  and  sordid  vice, 
Held  out  against  the  world  this  proud  device — 

1 '  Fidelity  supreme. ' ' 

Even  in  this  mammon  hold, 
Men,  honoring  him,  proclaim,  with  loftier  crest, 
Faith,   Loyalty,  despite  the   cynic's  jest 

Things  real  are  as  gold, 

And  feel  the   age  which  their  lost  aims  defile, 
Brightening  in  his  pure  fame,  become  less  base,  less 
vile ! 

Take  him,  Virginia,  to  thy  soil, 
Now  more  than  ever  sacred  ;    guard  his  dust, 
Ye   generations,   as  a  sacred  trust, 

Till  hushed  in   earth's  turmoil, 

The  loved,  the  venerated  ; 

Let  him  repose   where  by   Shenandoah's  flood, 
A  red  Asperges  of  young  Southern  blood 

His  grave  has  consecrated  ! 

Where  sleep  they  well  'neath  many  a  grassy  heap, 
Who  shared  on  earth  his  deeds,   his  grand  compan 
ionship. 


OF    THE     WAR.  301 

The  weak   heart  throbs 

To  think  how  great  we  would  have  made  him  ;  now 
A   dirge,   this  little  rood   of  glebe,   the  flow 

Of  woman's  tears,   and  strong  men's  sobs, 

Are  all  that  we  can    give. 
Vain  murmurer  !     End  thy  plaints !     When   of  all 

these 
Who  mourn  his  fate,   the  merest  memories 

Have   ceased  for  aye  to   live, 
It  shall  be  told,   while   earth  is  man's  abode, 
How  the  great  soul  which   to  all   coming  time 
Made   Stonewall  Jackson's   name   a  sound  sublime, 

Went  on  it's  way  to  God ! 

PHILADELPHIA,  May,  1863. 


THE  FUNERAL  DIRGE  OF  STONEWALL 
JACKSON. 

BY    EOSA     VERTNEB    JEFFREY. 

Muffled  drum  and  solemn  bugle, 

Sound  a  dirge  as   on  ye  move, 
Never  soldiers  mourned  a   chieftain, 

Worthier  of  their  trnst  and  love. 
As  ye  look  your  last  upon  him, 

Swear  to  fight  as  he  has  fought, 
Swear  to  follow  up  the  victory, 

By  his  life  so  dearly  bought. 
15 


>02  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

'Twas  no  North-man's  hand  that  slew   him, 

No   such  honor   shall  they    claim, 
Those   who  would  have  died  to   save  him, 

Smote  their  leader  as  he   came 
Conquering  towards   them,   in   the   darkness- 

They  mistook   him  for   that  foe 
He  bade  them  strike — alas  !    too  watchful, 

All  their  anguish  none  can  know. 

Bravest  chieftain  ! — good  as"  valiant, 

Who,   his  sword — like  Aaron's  rod 
Held  as  powerless — unless  guided 

By  the   strength   and  power   of  God. 
Eve  of  battle  never  found   him, 

Making  .  vain   and  idle  boasts, 
But,   in  humblest  mood  beseeching, 

Victory,   from   the   "  Lord  of  Hosts." 

As  the  mighty  shade  of  Theseus, 

Led  the  Athenian  armies  forth, 
Southrons, — when   ye  go   to  battle 

With  the  fierce   hordes  of  the   North, 
Let  the  spirit  of  your   hero, 

Stand  where   erst  he  stood   in  life, 
Cheering  you   to  wyin   or  perish, 

In  the  thickest  of  the  strife. 

Southern  ranks  will  never  falter, 

Southern  hearts  will  never  faint, 

Guided,   guarded,   by  the   spirit, 
Of  a  hero  and  a  saint  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  303 

Stand  ye  firm — the   name  deserving 
By  your  mighty  Stonewall  won, 

Let  his  lame,   on  morn   of   battle, 
Be  your  valor's  rising  sun  ! 

Kneel, — as  erst  ye   saw  him  kneeling — 

Southern   soldiers, — learn   to  pray, 
Jackson  prayed, — if  ye  would  -conquer 

Lo  an  angel  points    the  way. 
On  !    where  his  bright  form  is  leading, 

There  behold  your   banner  wave, 
Soldiers,  follow   on — to   Freedom, 

Or  a  Freeman's  honored  grave. 


May   20,  1863. 


304  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


STONEWALL  JACKSON. 

BY    H.    L.    FLASH. 

Not  midst  the  lightning  of   the  stormy  fight, 
Nor  in  the  rush  upon  the  vandal  foe, 

Bid  kingly  Death,  with  his  resistless  might 
Lay  the  great  leader  low. 

His  warrior  soul  its  earthly  shackles  broke 
In  the  full  sunshine  of   a  peaceful  town, 

When  all  the  storm  was  hushed,  the  trusty  oak 
That  propped  our  cause,  went  down. 

Though  his  alone  the  blood  that  flecks  the  ground, 
Eecalling  all  his  grand  heroic  deeds, 

Freedom  herself  is  writhing  with  the  wound, 
And  all  the  country  bleeds. 

He  entered  not  the  nation's  promised  land, 
At  the  red  belching  of  the  cannon's  mouth, 

But  broke  the  house  of  bondage  with  his  hand — 
The  Moses  of  the  South. 

0  gracious  God  !    not  gainless  in  the  loss, 
A  glorious  sunbeam  gilds  the  sternest  frown, 

And  while  his  country  staggers  'neath  the  cross, 
He  rises  with  the  crown  ! 

May  10,  1863. 


OF    THE     WAR.  305 


STONEWALL. 

"  Let  my  men  have  the  name — 
It  belongs  more  to  them  than  to  me." 

Weep  for  the  mighty  dead', 

The  nation's  joy  and  pride, 
Send  forth  the  mournful  tidings 

On  hill  and  mountain  side  ; 
Virginia,  shroud  thy  banners,  • 

Thou  had'st  no  nobler  son, 
Weep,  fettered  Maryland,  for  he 

Thy  freedom  would  have  won. 

Weep  for  the  hero  chieftain, 

He  met  your  greatest  need, 
Each  Southern  home  is  darkened, 

Each  Southern  heart  must  bleed  ; 
A  thousand  woulcl  have  fallen 

To  win  him  from  the  grave, 
What  were  a  thousand  lives  to  his — 

The  pure,  the  good,  the  brave  ! 

Weep  for  the  good  man  fallen, 

Ye  mothers  and  ye  wives, 
Teach  your  children  how  his  virtues 

May  brighten  their  young  lives — 
And  to  his  pure  example 

Each  mother  point  her  son 
To  the  dead — he  shall  live  on 

As  liveth  Washington. 


306  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Weep  for  the  great  and  gifted, 

We  all  have  cause  for  tears, 
For  him  in  whom  shone  brightly 

Each  virtue  that  .endears  ; 
And  nightly  in  our  prayer 

For  those  who  rule  our  land, 
At  his  dear  name  we  falter, 

Then  pray  for  Stonewall's  band. 

When  the  trumpet  calls  to  battle 

They'll  miss*  the  olden  spell 
That  ever  led  to  victory 

O'er  mountain,  brake  and  dell ; 
They'll  miss  his  voice  in  battle, 

And  in  the  hour  of  prayer, 
By  council  and  by  camp-fire, 

They'll  miss  him  everywhere. 

Oh  !    wreathe  your  brightest  laurel 

With  cypress  that  shall  wave 
Above  the  spot  ye  hallow 

As  Stonewall  Jackson's  grave  ; 
There,  with  reverence  and  with  love, 

Years  hence  shall  pilgrims  stand, 
Sweet  memories  to  garner 

Of   Stonewall   and  his  band. 


OF     THE     WAR.  307 

STONEWALL    JACKSON'S    GRAVE. 

BY    MRS.    M.    J.    PRESTON,    OF    LEXINGTON,    VA. 

A  simple,  sodded  mound  of   earth. 

With  not  a  line  above  it — 
With  only  daily  votive  flowers 

To  prove  that  any  love  it ; 
The  token  flag  that,  silently, 

Each-  breeze's  visit  numbers, 
Alone  keeps  martial  ward  above 

The  hero's  dreamless  slumbers. 

No   name  ?    no   record  ?      Ask  the  world — 

The  world  has  heard  his  story — 
If   all   its  annals   can   unfold 

A   prouder  tale   of  glory  ? 
If   ever  merely  human  life 

Hath  taught  diviner  moral — 
If   ever  round  a  worthier  brow 

Was  twined  a  purer  laurel  ? 

Humanity's  responsive   heart 

Concedes  his  wondrous  powers, 
And  pulses   with  a  tenderness 

Almost  akin   to   ours  ; 
Nay,  not  to  ours — for   us   he  poured 

His  life — a  rich  oblation, 
And  on  adoring  souls  we  bear 

His  blood  of  consecration. 


308  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

A  twelvemonth   only   since  his  sword 

Went  flashing  through  the  battle — 
A  twelvemonth  only  since  his  ear 

Heard  war's   last   deadly  rattle ; 
And  yet  have   countless  pilgrim  feet 

The  pilgrim's  guerdon  paid  him, 
And  weeping  women  come  to   see 

The  place  where  they  have  laid  him. 

Contending  armies*  bring,  in  turn, 

Their  meed  of  praise   or  honor, 
And   Pallas  here   has  paused  to  bind 

The   cypress  wreath   upon   her. 
It  seems  a  holy  sepulchre 

Whose   sanctities  can  waken 
Alike  the  love  of  friend  or  foe — 

The  Christian   or  the  Pagan  ! 

They   come  to  own  his  high  emprise 

Who   fled  in  frantic   masses 
Before   the  glittering  bayonet 

That  triumphed  at  Manassas ; 
He   witnessed  Kernstown's  fearful  odds, 

As  on  their  ranks  he  thundered, 
Defiant  as  the  storied  Greek 

Amid  his  brave  three  hundred. 


*  In  the  month  of  June.  1864,  this  singular  spectacle  was  presented  at  Lex 
ington,  of  two  hostile  armies  in  turn  reverently  visiting  the  grave  of  StonenMll 
Jackson. 


OF     THE     WAR.  309 

They  will  recall  the  tiger  spring, 

The  wise  retreat — the  rally — 
The  tireless  march — the  fierce  pursuit 

Through  many  a  mountain  valley. 
Cross  Keys  unlocks  new  paths  to  fame, 

And  Port   Republic's  story 
Wrests  from  his   ever  vanquished  foes 

Strange   tributes  to  his  glory  ! 

Cold  Harbor  rises  to  their  view, 

The   Cedar  gloom  is   o'er  them, 
And  Antietam's  rough-wooded  heights 

Stretch  mockingly  before  them. 
The  lurid  flames  of  Fredericksburg 

Right  grimly  they   remember, 
That  lit  the  frozen   night's  retreat 

That  wintry,   wild   December. 

The   largesse   of  this   praise  is  flung, 

With  bounty   rare   and  regal, 
Is  it  because   the  vulture  fears 

No  longer  the  dead  eagle  ? 
Nay,  rather  far  accept  it  thus  : 

An  homage  true  and  tender, 
As  soldier  unto  soldier's  worth — 

As  brave  to  brave  will  render  ! 

But  who  shall  weigh  the  wordless  grief 

That  leaves  in  tears  its  traces, 
As  round  their  leader  crowd   again 

Those   bronzed  and  veteran  faces  ? 
15* 


310  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

The  "  old  brigade"   he  loved  so  well — 
The   mountain   men   who   bound  him 

With  bays  of  their  own  winning,   ere 
A  tardier  fame  had  crowned  him. 

The  legions  who  had  seen  his  glance 

Across   the  carnage   flashing, 
And  thrilled  to  catch  his  ringing  "charge' 

Above  the  volley  crashing  ; 
Who  oft  had  watched  the  lifted  hand 

The  inward  trust  betraying, 
And  felt  their  courage  grow  sublime 

While  they  beheld  him  praying. 

Cool  knights,  and  true  as  ever  drew 

Their  swords  with  knightly  Roland, 
Or  died  at  Sobieski's  side' 

For   love  of  martyred  Poland  ; 
Or  knelt  with  Cromwell's  "Ironsides," 

Or  sung  with  brave  Gustavus, 
Or  on  the  field  of  Austerlitz 

Breathed  out  their  dying  "aves." 

Rare  fame  !    rare  name  !    if  chanted  praise, 

With  all  the  world  to  listen, 
If  pride  that  swells  a  nation's  soul — 

If  foeman's  tears  that  glisten — 
If  pilgrim's  shining  love — if  grief 

Which  nought  can  soothe  or  sever, 
If  these  can  consecrate,  this  spot 

Is  sacred  ground  forever. 


OF    THE     WAR.  311 


"OVER   THE   RIVER." 

Dr.  Hunter  Maguire  thus  concludes  his  account  of  the  last  mo 
ments  of  Stonewall  Jackson  :  "Then  his  manner  changed,  and 
he  murmured,  '  Let  us  cross  over  the  river,  and  rest  under  the 
trees.'  " 

BY     J.     PAFFORK. 


"  Over  the   river — over  the  river — 

There  where  the  soft  lying  shadows  invite," 

And   fanned    by    the    South    wind    the    forest    leaves 

quiver, 
And  fire-flies  dance  through  the  sweet  summer  night. 

"  Soldiers  and  comrades,  we'll  cross  that  broad  river, 

Far  from  the  tumults  of  trumpet  and  drum, 
And  the  cannon's  deep  boom,  and  the  fierce  squadron's 

shiver, 

As  they   reel    in   their   saddles — then   come,   brothers, 
come. 

"  Over  the  river — over  the  river — 

Come  ere  the  sun  goeth  down  in  the  West, 

Angel  forms  beckon  us,   sent   to  deliver 
Tha  weary  from  labar,  to  offer  him  rest." 


312  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Over  the  river — a  fathomless  river, 

In  the  land  where  no  shadow  is  needed  or  seen, 
Where  the  leaves  of  the  forest  trees  wither — no,  never, 

And  the  fruits  are  all  golden,  the  pastures  all  green. 

From  the    couch   where  the  warrior  lay  stricken  and 
dying, 

He  saw  in  a  vision  the  country  so  fair — 
All  its  streams  and  its  valleys,  its  mountains  outlying, 

And  the  city  whose  gates  are  of  pearls  rich  and  rare. 

Over  the   river — the   dark   flowing  river, 
Death  bore   the   hero   and  victor  and  saint, 

Great  in   earth's  conflict,   greater  than   ever 
When  they  had  left  him  bleeding   and  faint. 

Waiting  to  cross  it,   all  radiant  with  glory, 

Strong  in  the   faith  which  is  born  of  pure   life, 

Bequeathing  a  name  to  the   record   of  story, 
That  tells  of  bold  deeds  in  the  patriot's  strife. 


OF    THE     WAR.  313 


LET  US  CROSS  OVER  THE  RIVER  AND  REST 
UNDER  THE  SHADE  OF  THE  TREES." 

Last  words  of  Stonewall  Jackson. 

BY    JAMES. 

"  Over  the  river,"  a  voice  meekly  said, 
Whose  clarion  tones  had  thousands  obeyed, 
As  in  ranks  upon  ranks  they  grandly  rushed  on, 
To  battle  for  liberty,  country,  and  home  ! 

"  Over  the  river,"  immortality's  plains, 
In   verdure   eternal  where  peace   ever  reigns, 
Rejoice  with  their  beauty  his  vision  of  faith, 
As  his  spirit  approaches  the  river  of  death  ! 

"  Over  the  river,   'neath  the  shade  of  the  trees," 
Advancing  to  meet  him  bright  angels  he  sees, 
They  beckon  him  over  to  rest  in  the  shade, 
And  dwell  in  the  mansions  the  Saviour  hath  made. 

"  Over  the  river,   'neath  .the  shade  of  the  trees," 
Whose  fruit   of   twelve  manners  his  taste  shall  e'er 

please  ; 

Beneath  whose  soft  foliage  his  spirit  may  rest, 
"  Over  the  river,"  in  the  home  of  the  blest. 


614  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

"  Over  the  river,  'neath  the  shade  of  the  trees," 
Freed  from  earth's  sorrows  he'll  rest  at  his  ease ; 
Life's   conflict  is   over,  its  battle   is  won, 
And  his  brow   will    be   wreathed   with   the    victor's 
bright  crown. 

"  Over  the  river,"  now  a  Heavenly  guest ! 
"  'Neath  the  shade  of  the  trees,"  forever  at  rest ! 
In  that  glorious  land,  enraptured  he'll  sing, 
The  praises  of  Him  who  of  Kings  is  the  King  ! 


THE  "STONEWALL"  CEMETERY. 

Lines  written  by  Mrs.  M.  B.  Clark,  of  North  Carolina,  ("Tenella") 
in  behalf  of  the  ''•  S'oaewall  "   Cemetery,  "Winchester,  Va. 

The  storm  of  war   which  swept  our  country  wide, 
Like  snow-flakes,   scattered  graves  on  every  side, 
Here,   heaped  in  drifts,   on  battle  fields  they  lie, 
There,  dropped  like  leaves  where  soldiers  chanced 

to  die. 

Back  to  their  homes  our  State  has  brought, 
Some  honored  sons  who  for  her  freedom  fought, 
And  where  their  feet  in  youth  and  manhood  strayed, 
Beneath  their  native  sod  her  children  laid, 
That  kindred  hands  with  loving  care  may  keep 
The  graves  in  which  her  cherished  soldiers  sleep. 


OF    THE     WAR.  315 

Thus  to   her  heart   in  close   embrace   she  drew 
Her  GORDON,  FENDER,  BRANCH  and  PETTIGKEW. 
But  ah  !    there's  man}7  a  one   as   leal  and  brave, 
Who  slumbers  in   a   soldier's  unmarked  grave, 
Buried  just  where  he  fell,  by  friend   or  foe, 
Without  one  sign  by  which  his  State  may  know, 
Now    that  the   fearful  conflict's  wholly  done, 
What    grave  enfolds  the  ashes   of  her  son. 
Right  nobly   did  she   do  her  part  to  fill, 
Those  unmarked  graves  which  dot  each  vale  and  hill, 
Where  bravely   fought — and  oh  !   how   bravely  died, 
Virginia's  boast   and    Carolina's  pride ! 
The  grand,  gigantic  "Stonewall"   of  our  cause, 
Whose  name  we  breathe,   and  then  in   reverence 

pause. 

And   shall  they  lie   uncared  for  where  they  fell, 
Without  one  mark  the   soldier's  grave   to  tell  ? 
Were  they  not  Jackson  s  boys  ?    and   does  not  he 
Stand  in    our   hearts  beside   immortal   Lee  ? 
Ah  !    for  his   sake,   Virginia's  daughters  ask 
Each  sister   State  to  aid  them  in   their  task, 
And   ere  their  graves  like  snowflakes  melt  away, 
The  bones  of  JACKSON'S  boys  together  lay, 
That  they  in  death  may  sleep  beneath  that  name, 
Which  shed  upon  their  lives,  its  rays  of  fame  ! 


316  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  SOUTH. 

INSCRIBED    TO    QUEEN    VICTORIA,     BY    ROSA    VERTNER    JEFFREY, 

From  our  ancient  moss-veiled  forests, 

Jasmine  bowers,   savannahs  green, 
From  the   South  a  voice   comes  pleading, 

Pleading  to  thee,  gracious   Queen. 
From  our  broad  palmetto  thickets, 

From  each  deep  and  fragrant  vale, 
Groves  of  orange  and  magnolia, 

Now  breathes  forth  a  plaintive  wail. 
From  the  graves  of  many   heroes, 

While  their  life-blood  soaks  the  sod, 
From  the  hearts  that  mourn  them,  turning 

In  their  wretchedness  to  God. 
From   our  fair  homes  desolated 

By  a  selfish  tyrant's  greed, 
From  the  noble  bosoms  bleeding, 

And  from  those  that  still  must  bleed, 
Plaintive  comes  a  sad  voice  pleading 

Wafted  to  thee  o'er  the  sea, 
From  a  proud,  brave,   tortured  people, 

Struggling  fiercely  to  be  free. 
Struggling  not  for  gain  or  conquest, 

But  to  strike  the   foes  who  spoil 
^Roof-trees,  fire-sides,  homes  and  altars, 

And  to  drive  them  from  our  soil. 


OF    THE     WAR.  317 

Thus  it  is  we  stand  exalted 

High  before  the  world  to-day, 
Thus  that  twenty  million  North-men 

We  have  proudly  held  at  bay  ! 
Like  the  great  Goliath  boasting 

Of  their  wondrous  power  and  might, 
Went  these  North-men  forth  exultant, 

And  defiant  to  the  fight. 
Thus  we  met  them,  few  to  many, 

Strong  beneath  the  Almighty's  wing, 
As  that  youth  who  slew   Goliath, 

With  a  pebble  from'  a  sling  ! 
Years  of  bitter  strife  have  left  us 

Full  of  strength  and  prowess  still, 
Wearing  freedom's  mail,  whose  breast-plate 

Is  a  freeman's  iron  will. 
And  our  prayer  is  not  for   treasure, 

Not  for  aid  by  sea  or  land, 
But  to  stand  among  the  nations, 

Where  we  have  won  a  right  to  stand. 
By  the  crown  whose  gerns  have  gathered 

Brightness  since  they  graced  thy  brow, 
By  that  royal  heart,  so  tender,  - 

Hear  us,  sovereign  lady,  now. 
When  the  British  Lion  shall  greet  us, 

All  the  world  will  find  a  voice, 
To  hail  us,   then,  a  nation,  making 

Death  or  liberty  her  chbice  ! 

Jan.,  1863. 


318  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


THE    AUTUMN    RAIN. 

BY    SUSAN    ARCHER    T ALLEY,    (MRS.    VON    WEISS.) 

Softly,  mournfully,  slowly, 

Droppeth  the  rain  from  the  eaves, 
It  falls  on  the  head  of  the  drooping  flowers, 

In  the  hearts  of  the  withered  leaves. 

Sadly,  mournfully,  slowly, 

Over  the   darkening  hills, 
The  funeral  clouds  are  gathering  low, 

As  the  rain  from  the  sky   distils. 

My  tears  could  fall  as  sadly 

For  pleasant  days  that  are  past, 
And  dark  as  the  clouds  on  the  lovely  hills, 

Are  the  shadows  around  me  cast. 

But  holier  far  in  its  sadness, 

Is  the  desolate  autumn  time, 
Than  the  light  that  parcheth  the  fainting  flowers 

In  the  fullness  of  summer's  prime. 

Holier,  gentler,  and  purer, 

Are  thoughts  that  hallow  the  heart, 

Which  hath  seen  the  buds  of  its-  hope  decay, 
And  the  light  of  its  joy  depart. 


OF    THE     WAR.  319 

For  they  were  the  April  flowers, 
And  these  are  the  golden  sheaves — 

The  sad,  sweet  thoughts  on  'the  hearts  that  fall, 
As  droppeth  the  rain  from  the  eaves. 

RICHMOND,  VA., 


NIL  DESPERANDUM— TO  THE  SOUTHERN  SOL 
DIER. 

BY  "IKET     INGLE. 

Wheel  in  the  rut  ?    then  shoulder  to  the  wheel ; 
Make  muscle  and  sinew  nerve  force  feel ; 
In  the  Slough  of   Despond  sinks  the  nation's  weal  ? 
Let  purpose  speak  in  connon's  peal ! 

Learn    to  will  and  to  do! 

The  ship's  yet  steady,  the  tempest  sweeps  past, 
No  leak's   discovered,   unsprung's  the  mast, 
Let  new  spars  be  fitted,  the  seamen  stand  fast, 
Beware  but  of  breakers,   she'll  weather,  the  blast, 

Her  helmsman  is  true. 

Bare   the  brawny  arm,  the  anvil  full  swing  ! 
Hands  to  the   bellows,   fresh  fuel  bring  ; 
Iter,   Iterumque,  make  the  anvil  sing, 
Not  cotton,  not  gold,  but  labor  is  king. 

Unite  will  and  might ! 


320  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Hand  to  the  plough !    Let  us  never  look  back  ! 
Hold  the  reins  steady,   make   the  thong  smack ; 
Strike  deep  the  furrow,  and  hold  fast  to  the  track, 
Sow  the   seed  !    The   harvest  !    oh,    let    it  not  lack 

Fruit  for  posterity. 

Remember  the  past,  and   rival  its  fame, 
Barter  not  birthright  for  sorrow  and  shame  ! 
Bequeath   what   was   willed   thee,    thine  honor,   thy 

name, 

To  the  true,  death  or  victory  are  but  the  same 

Keys  to   eternity. 

RICHMOND,  VA.,  Jan.  18,  1864. 


DESPONDENCY. 

BY    TENELLA. 

The  waters  in  life's  goblet  sink, 
Which  late  were  foaming  to  its  brink 

With  happiness   aglow  ; 
From  every  bubble  flashing  bright, 
The   sparkling  opalescent  light, 

That  only  it  can  show. 

Now  cold  and  dark  the  sluggish  creep, 
Not  bounding  on  with  vigorous  leap 
O'er  cares  which  clog  the  way, 


OF    THE     WAR.  321 

From  every  struggle  gaming  strength, 
Until  the  rocks  o'erleaped  at  length, 
In   limpid  pools  they   lay. 

But  sinking,   sinking,   every  hour, 
'Neath  care  and  sorrow's  carping  power, 

They   daily  run  to  waste. 
No  bubbles  now  upon  them  rise, 
They  glisten  not  with  rainbow   dyes, 

And  bitter  is  their  taste. 

So  bitter  that  the  unwelcome   draught 
My  thirsty    spirit  will   not   quaff, 

And  scarcely  is   restrained 
From  dashing  from  my  fevered  lip 
The  stagnant  lees  I  yet  must  sip 

Before  the  goblet's   drained. 

But  in  its  waters  dark  I  see 
Reflected  faces  turned  to  me, 

And  when   of  them   I   think, 
I   crush  despondent  thoughts  like  these, 
Resolving  to   its  bitter  lees 

Life's  goblet  I    will   drink. 

Nor  has  its  beauty  wholly  fled, 
Submissively   I  bow   my  head — 

And  murmuring  thoughts  restrain, 
For  while  each  well  beloved  face, 
In  life's  dark  waters  I  can   trace, 

They  do  not  flow  in  vain. 


322  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


LILIES   OF   THE    VALLEY. 

INSCRIBED  TO  THE  FRIEND  WHO  SENT  THEM. BY    ROSA  VERTNER 

JEFFREY. 

Lady, — the  fairy  blossoms  you  have  culled  for  me  to 
day, 

Modest,  dainty,  vestal  lilies,  clustering  on  the  path  of 
May, 

A  deep  and  tender  meaning,  to  my  haunted  heart  may 
bring, 

With  their  faint,  delicious  breathings  from  the  bosom 
of  the  spring. 

They  mind  me  of  a  home  beloved,  my  home  in  by 
gone  years, 

Then  beautiful  beyond  compare,  —  now  dark  with  blood 
and  tears  ! 

They  mind  me  that  a  storm  of  strife  has  strown  my 
native  shore, 

With  wrecks  of  hope  and  happiness,  —  lost,  lost,  for- 
evermore. 

Lady,  they  prate  of  battles,  they  tell  thee  of  the  war, 
And  thou  dost  read  of,   nay  lament,  its  horrors   from 

afar, 
But  oh  !    thy  heart  would  grieve   like  mine,   did  that 

red  deluge  now, 
Dividing  thee    from   cherished   scenes,    and   friends   of 

long  ago. 


OF    THE     WAR.  323 

I  have  wept  above  your  lilies,  for  they  lure  my  heart 

away, 
Mid.  memories  of  the  light  and  love  of  many  a  bygone 

May, 
'Neath  warm,  bright  skies,  when  joy  was  throned  on 

every  beaming  brow, 
The  sun  shines  on !  — mocking  our  gloom  of  desolation 

now. 

Woe  to  the  then  thrice  blessed, — who  now  must  suffer 

and    endure, 
Woe  to  the  countless  bleeding  hearts  no  earthly  hope 

can    cure, 
Woe   to  that  cry   of  carnage  —  making  all   the  airs  of 

spring 
Like  the  voice  of  grief  in  Ramah — with  lamentations 

ring. 

Fled  is  the  guardian  spirit  of  a  land  once  blest  and 

good, 
His  "white  plume  soiled  with  battle  smoke,  his  banner 

steeped   in   blood, 
And  lo !.   one  universal  prayer  from  North  and  South 

should  pour : 
"  Oh !  Father  send  the  angel  Peace,  to  dwell  with  us 

once  more." 

ROCHESTKR,  May,  1864. 


324  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

THE    BOY    PICKET;    OR    CHARLEY'S    GUARD. 

BY    A    LADY    OF    KENTUCKY. 

Wearily  my  footsteps  their  measured  cadence  keep, 
While    my    tired    comrades    are   wrapped    in    slumber 

deep, 

Cheerily  on  pinion  whose  range  no  limits  bind, 
My  truant  soul  is  speeding,  floating  on  the  wind, 
Nor  cold  nor  hunger  heeding,  floating  on  the  wind. 

Winter's  gems  are  gleaming  on  crested  glade  and  hill, 
As  my  spirit  wanders  back  and  forth  at  will, 
Onward   to  the  cottage,   nestling  'mid  the  trees, 
Homeward    to   the   dear   ones    there,   floating   on   the 

breeze — 
Sweetest  words  of  joy  to  hear  floating  on  the  breeze. 

Starry  eyes  bend  o'er  me  in  calm  and  holy  love, 
The  sleepy  earth  beneath  me,  silence  and  God  above  ; 
A  tender  spell  enfolds  me,  a  soft  breath  stirs  my  hair, 
It  is  my  mother's  blessing  floating  on  the  air — 
Her  weary  boy  caressing,  floating  on  the  air. 

Hark  !   the  note  of  warning,  the  low  and  muffled  hum, 
Ere  another  dawning  the  battle's  crash  shall  come, 
Ere  another  sunset,  ten  thousand  heart   throes  warm, 
The  battle-fiend  shall  gather,  floating  on  the  storm — 
Shall  seek  Thy  presence,  Father,  floating  on  the  storm. 


OF    THE     WAR.  325 

Oh,  Thou  Guide  of  Israel  !    my  country  cries  to  Thee, 
Lead  her,   Lord  !    to  glory — to  truth — to  liberty, 
Eepel  the  invading  spoiler,   nor   let   her  banner  quail 
Until   the    shout  of   victory  is    floating   on    the   gale — 
Till  Liberty's  hosanna  is  floating  on   the  gale. 

Father  !  hear  and  pardon  Thine  erring  child  to-night,. 
Clothe  my  soul  in  valor,  and  gird  my  limbs  with  might, 
Bless,    oh   bless   my   mother,    my  friends   beloved  and 

dear  ; 

Father  !    listen  to  the  cry,  floating  to  Thine  ear — 
Father  !    take  me  if  I  die,  take  me  to   Thy  care  ! 


"TRUE   TO   THE   LAST." 

We  give  the  following  pathetic  verses  to  our  readers,  premising 
that  they  were  written  upon  an  incident,  which  occurred  in  the 
last  battle  of  one  of  the  author's  friends.  Having  a  foreboding  of 
his  fate,  he  penciled,  on  the  plating  of  his  scabbard,  the  name  of 
his  lady  love,  and  the  words,  "  In  the  face  of  death,  my  thoughts 
are  thine."  A  faithful  comrade  removed  from  his  body,  and  bore 
to  the  weeping  maiden,  this  sad  token  of  his  constancy.  Col.  W. 
Stewart  Hawkins,  of  Tennessee,  is  one  of  the  most  chivalrous  and 
accomplished  gentlemen  of  the  Fouth,  and,  though  a  foeman,  has 
won  the  esteem  of  his  opponents,  on  the  field,  and  his  captors, 
while  in  prison,  by  his  noble  and  manly  spirit,  his  gallant  and 
generous  bearing.  He  is  very  youthful,  and,  with  the  enthusiasm 
of  his  years,  seems  to  unite  in  himself  the  literary  tastes  of  Sidney, 
the  valor  of  Bayard,  and  the  endurance  of  Roderick. 

New   York  Knickerbocker. 


BY    COL.    W     S.    HAWKINS. 


The  bugles  blow  the  battle-call, 

And  through  the  camp  each  stalwart  band, 
To-day,  its  serried  columns  forms, 

To  fight  for  God  and  native  land  ! 
Brave  men  are  marching  by  my  side, 

Our  banners  floating  glad  and  free, 
But  yet,  amid  this  brilliant  scene, 

I  give  my  thoughts  to  thee. 

16 


326  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

The  horsemen  dashing  to  and  fro, 

The  drums  with  wild  and  thunderous  roll, 
The  sights  and  sounds — all  things  that  tend 

To  kindle  valor  in   the   soul ; 
These   are   all  here,   but  in   the  maze 

Of   squadrons,  moved  with  furious  glee, 
Still  true  to  every  vow  we  made, 

I  give  my  thoughts  to  thee. 

The   deep  booms  smite   the   troubled  air, 

Each  throb  proclaims  the  foeman   near, 
And  faintly   echoed   from  the   front, 

I  hear  my  gallant   comrades  cheer — • 
Wild  joy   of   heroes,   marching   on, 

Through  blood,   their  glorious  land  to  free  ! 
I  give   to  freedom,   here,  my   life, 

But  all  my  thoughts  to  thee. 

And  yet,   beloved,   I  must  not  think 

What  undreamed   bliss  may  soon   be  mine  : 
It  would  unman   me  in   the  work 

Of  guarding  well  our  country's  shrine. 
Here,   on   this  sword,    I  write  my  troth, 

These  words  shall  yet  thy  solace   be, 
They'll  tell  how,  in  this  last  fierce  hour, 

I  gave  my  thoughts  to  thee. 

Along  the  east,  the  holy  morn 

Renews  life's  many  cares  and  joys  : 
This  hour,    I  hope,   some  wish   for  me, 

Thy  pure  and  tender  prayer  employs.  . 
Another  beauteous  dawn  of   light 

These  eyes,   alas  !    may   never  see, 
But  even   dying,  faint,   and  maimed, 

I  still   would  think  of   thee. 


OF     TJIE     WAR.  327 

And  then,   in  coming  years,  that  roll, 

When  scenes  of  peace  and  brightness  throng, 
And  round  each  happy  hour  is  twined 

The  wreath   of   friendship,   love   and  song, 
Go  to  his  grave,   whose  heart  was  thine, 

And  by  that  spot  a  mourner  be, 
One  tear  for  him,  thy  loved  and  lost, 

Whose  last  thought  clung  to  thee. 


A    PRISON    SCENE. 

BY  COL.  HAWKINS,   C.  S    A. 

Last  night  a  comrade  sent  in  haste 

For  me  to   soothe   his  fearful  pain  ; 
He  felt  Death's  power  advancing  fast, 

He  knew  that  hope  was  vain. 
God's  promises  I  read  again, 

Till   Faith's  sweet  light  shone   from  his  eye  ; 
Sole  gleam — for  sorrow  filled  me  then, 

As  shadows  fill  the  sky. 

A   dreary  place  that  hospital — 

Where  dim  lamps  break   the  solemn  gloom, 
And  nurses  move   with  slow  footfall, 

Like  spectres,   through  the  room. 
Above  those   cots  all  miseries  blend, 

On   each  some  form  of  suffering  lies  ; 
Some   groan — some  sleep — but  here   one   friend 

Puts  on   the   angel's  guise. 


328  SOUTHERN  -POEMS 

Scarcely  I  heard  the  bugle's  call, 

Scarce  felt  the  night-wind's  heavy  breath, 
I   only  saw  the   shadows  fall, 

And  the   ghastly  chill   of   death, 
Save   where   a  pallid  splendor  lay 

Upon  his  brow,  like  martyr's  crown, 
The  sweet  foreshadowing  of  the  day 

In   which  life's  star  goes  down. 

I  hear  his  piteous  tones  implore. 

And  heed  his  hand's  hot  clinging  grasp — 
Pale   hands,   alas — that  nevermore 

Shall  feel  love's  answering  clasp. 
His  frenzied  spirit  flies  from  pain, 

He  thinks  himself  once  more  at  home  : 
"  Dear  wife — dear  child — I'm  here  again, 

Close  to  me — closer  come. 

"  I  could  not  lag  where   country  led — 

The  voice  of  wrong  could  not  beguile  ; 
You  would  not  have  me  stay,   you   said, 

If  honor  ceased  to   smile. 
Ah !    many  fall   in  this  wild  strife ! 

But  freedom  holds  their  memories  dear, 
And  makes  a  gem  of  every   life — 

For  the  crown  she  yet  shall  wear. 

"  And  many   a  time  when  raged  the  fight 
I've  seemed  to  see  her  through  the  smoke, 

With  smiles  that  shone  in   tearful  light, 
Bless  every  valiant  stroke. 


OF    THE     WAR.  329 

I'm  hurt  and  tired  now — so  place 

Our  little  darling  by  my  bed  ! 
One  hand,   my  own,   to  your  embrace, 

And  one  on  Baby's  head." 

His  voice  was  hushed — short  grew  his  breath, 

The  glazing  eyes  closed  slowly  o'er, 
The  bloodless  lips  were  kissed  by  Death — 

They'll  speak  of  love   no  more. 
One   clammy  hand  I  held  in  mine 

And  o'er  it  breathed  my  fervent  prayer — 
Beneath   the   other  seemed  to  shine 

His  Baby's  golden  hair. 


LINES   ON   CAPTAIN   BEALL. 

Lines  written  on  the  wish  expressed  by  Gnpt  BeaU,  that  his  body 
should  not  be  carried  to  the  Valley  until  his  mother  could  write 
upon  his  tomb  "He  died  in  defense  of  his  country." 


BY  COL.  HAWKINS,  C.   8.  A. 


Make  not  my   grave  in  the  valley  yet, 
'Neath  the  sod  of  an  alien  let  it  be, 
Till-  my  mother  can  write  with  tears  of  pride, 
On  my  tomb  these  simple  words,   "  He  died 
Dear  land,   defending  thee  !  " 

Not  there  where  the   blackened  homesteads  are, 

And  the  tokens  of  deathless  wrong, 
Not  the  place  where   a  pall  is  upon  the   land, 
All   scourged  by  sword  and  scarred  by  brand, 
And  hushed  is  every  song. 


330  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Not  there  where  the  church-yard's  tnrf  is  torn, 
By  the   hoof  of  a  vile  and  ruthless  foe 

Shall  his  grave  be  made ;    for  a  Northerner's  hate 

That  sacred  spot  would  desecrate, 
A  fiendish  wrath   to  show. 

In  days  of  Rome  as  dangers  fled, 

When  friendly  Curtius  leaped  to  save, 
The  eager  votaries  sought  to  share, 
And  blessed  with   garlands   rich  and  fair, 
The  hero's  honored  grave. 

But  he  more  grand    and   noble  still, 

Uncheered  by  any  loud  acclaim, 
In   the  might  of  his  undaunted  soul 
Drank  freely   sorrows  keenest  dole. 

And  faced  the  brink  of  shame. 

Yet  ere  he  plunged,   the  angels  swift 
Along  their   earthly  pathway   trod, 
They  smote  away  the  bitter  cup 
And  bore  the   star-crowned  martyr  up, 
On  their  pinions  back  to   God. 

And  nature  mourns  that  valiant  heart, 
For  there,  upon  his  Northern-  tomb, 

The  flowers  of  spring  shall  wave  above 
His  ashes  in  their  bloom. 


OF    THE     WAR.  331 


THE   HERO   WITHOUT   A   NAME. 

BY    COL.    W.    S.    HAWKINS,    C.    8.    A.,     PRISONER    OF    WAR.° 

I   loved,   when   a  child,   to  seek  the  page 

Where  war's  proud  tales   are   grandly   told, 
And   to   read   of  the   might   of  that   former  age, 

In   the   brave,   good   days   of  old  ; 
When   men   for   Virtue   and   Honor   fought 

In  serried  ranks,   'neath  their  banners  bright, 
By  the  fairy  hands  of  beauty  wrought, 

And   broidered  with  "God  and  Right!" 

'Twas  there   I   read  of   Sir   Lancelot  true, 

Whose  deeds  have  been   sung  in   a  nobler  strain 
And  of  Roderic,  the  Bold,  who  his  falchion  drew, 

In   the   cause   of  his  native   Spain  ; 
And,   in  thought,   I   beheld  gay   Sidney   ride, 

His  white   plume   dotting  the  field's   expanse  ; 
And  Bayard,  who  came  like  the  swirl  of  the  tide, 

As  he   struck  for  the  lilies  of  France. 

On  the   crags  of  Scotland  then   I   saw, 
With  his  hair  of  golden  hue,   Montrose  ; 

And  the  swarthy  Douglas,  whose  name  was  law 
In   the   homes  of  his   English  foes. 


By  tl.e  close  of  the  war  Colonel  Hawkins    was    liberated  from  prison  and 
ed   home    n  die. 


332  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

There  was  Winkelried,  in  the  Swiss-land  famed  ; 

And  the  mountaineers'  boast — devoted  Tell — - 
Before  whose  patriot  shaft,  well-aimed, 

His  country's  tyrant  fell. 

'Neath   Erin's  flag,  with  its  glad  sunburst, 

Was   Emmett,   the  first  in  that  martyr  van, 
Whose  blood  "makes  sacred  the  gibbet  accursed, 

Where  they   died   for  the  rights  of  man. 
There  was  Light-Horse  Harry,  the  first  in  the  fray, 

There   was   Marion   leading  his  cavaliers, 
And  Washington,   too,  whose  grave  to-day, 

Is  the  shrine  of  patriot  tears. 

These  splendid  forms  were  part  of  the  throng 

That  delighted  me,  moving  in  pageant  grand, 
Through  the  wastes  of  time  and  the  fields  of  song, 

From  the  legends  of  every  land. 
But  little   I  hoped  myself  to  see 

A  spirit  akin  to  these  stately  men  ; 
Or  dreamed  that  great  hearts,  like  theirs,  could   be 

In   a  prison's  crowded  pen. 

Yet,   I've  seen   in  the   wards   of  the  hospital  there, 

A  hero,   I   fancy,   as  peerless  of  soul ; 
A   pale-faced  boy,  whose  home   is  fair, 

Where  the  waters  of  Cumberland  roll. 
On   his  -narrow   cot,   in   that  narrow   room, 

Where  the  music  he  hears  is  the  sigh  and  the  groan, 
He  lies  through  the  day's  long  pain  and  gloom, 

But  he  never  makes  a  moan  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  333 

They  hewed  him  down   with  their  blades  of  steel, 

Where  the  troopers  charged  from  the  camp  of  the 

foe; 
But  he  was   not  killed — although  I  feel, 

It  would  have  been  better   so  ; 
For  my  heart  within  me  is  very  sad, 

As  I   sit  and  hold  his  wasted  hand, 
And  hear  him  tell  of  the  days  that  were  glad, 

In  our  own  dear,  sunny  land. 

There  are  hours,  again,  in  his  fever's  heat, 

When  his  restless  fancies  fly  to  his  home  : 
And  he  talks  of  the  scythe  in  the  falling  wheat, 

And  the  reapers  that  go  and  come  ; 
Of  his  boyish  mates,  in  their  frolicsome  glee, 

In  the  cedar  glades  and  the  woodlawns  dim  ; 
And  how  he  carved  there  on  many  a  tree, 

A  name  that  was  dear  to  him  ; 

Of  the  sweet  wild  roses  that  scatter  the  light, 

Through  the  open  door  and  the  window-pane  ; 
And  October's  haze,  on  the  far-off  height, 

And  the  quiet  country  lane  ; 
Of  the  rivulet's  plash,  and  the  song  of  birds, 

And  the  corn  rows,  standing  like  men  with  spears ; 
Of  his  mother's  tones,  and  her  loving  words — 

And  his  cheeks  are  wet  with  tears. 

And  I  seem  to  see  her,  as  autumn  leaves 
Like  shadows  fall  in  the  lonely  glen, 

And  the  swallows  come  home  to  those  silent  eaves, 
Where  he  shall  not  come  again. 
10* 


334  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

And  then  I  rejoice  that  she  can  not  see, 

How  the  blight  has  stained  her  fairest  bloom  ; 

I   am  glad  her  footstep  will   never  be 
Beside  his  northern  tomb. 

And   I   think   of  another  who   watches  too, 

When  the   early   stars  are   bright  on  the  hill, 
Nor  dreams  that  his  heart,  so  confiding  and  true, 

Will   soon   be  forever  still." 
Ah  !  many,  in  vain,  to  their  hopes  shall   cling, 

Through  the  dreamy  morn  and  the  mournful  eve ; 
And  memory  alone  shall  its  solace   bring, 

To  a  thousand  hearts  that  grieve. 

My  comrade  will  last  but  a  little   while  ; 

For  I  see   on   every   succeeding  day, 
A   fainter  flush,   but  a  sweeter  smile, 

Over  his  features  play. 
And  he  knows  that  until  he  is  under  the  sod, 

These  walls,  little  better,  shall  shut  him  in  ; 
But  his  soul  puts   trust  in   the   Lamb  of  God, 

That  taketh  away  all  sin  ! 

And  somehow  I  think,  when  our  lives  are  done, 

That  this  humble   hero,  without  a  name, 
Will  be  greater  up  there,  than   many  a  one 

Of  the  high-born  men  of  fame. 
And   I  know   I  would  rather  wear  to-day, 

The  crown  that  is  his,  with  its  fadeless  bloom. 
Than   Roderic's  helm,   so  golden  and  gay, 

Or  Sidney's  snow-white  plume  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  335 

0  prisoner  boy  !  that  I   were  as  near, 

As  you  are  now  to  that   "  shining  shore," 
Where  the  waters  of  life  and  of  love  are  clear, 

And  weeping  shall   come   no  more. 
It  can  not  be  now  ;  yet,   in  God's  own  time, 

When  he  calls  his  weary  ones  home  to  rest, 
May   I  join  with  you   in   the   angel   chime — 

Like  you,  be  a  welcome  guest ! 


THE    CHIMES    OF   ST.    PAULS. 

BY    TEN ELL A. 

The  chimes  of  St.  Paul's  Church,  Petersburg,  Va.,  were  presented 
by  Miss  Nannie  May  when  on  her  death-bed,  and  though  unin 
jured  by  the  shells  which  struck  the  church,  were  not  rung  during 
the  bombardment  of  the  place,  except  at  the  funeral  of  the  Militia 
men  who  fell  at  the  beginning  of  the  siege. 

When  first,   St.  Paul's,  your  sweet-toned  chimes 

Shed  music   on  the  air, 
They  seemed  an  angel's  pleading  voice 

Which  called  us  unto  prayer  ; 
An  angel  who  had  left  this  earth 

To  sing  a   Heavenly  strain, 
But  in  the  music  of  your  bells 

Spoke  unto  us  again. 
Now  loud  and  clear,   then   low   and  sweet, 

You  touched  each  listener's  heart, 
Till  every  rising,  falling  note 

Seemed  of  its  life  a  part. 


336  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

You  rang  a  clear,  a  joyous  peal 

The  blushing  bride  to  meet, 
Then   let  your  softest,  sweetest  note, 

The  baptized  infant  greet. 
You  rang,   alas  !    a  solemn   dirge 

The .  mourner's  grief  to  tell, 
Then  let  the  ransomed  spirit's  joy 

A  glorious  anthem  swell, 
That  while   you  bore  aloft  the  wail 

Of  those  who  wept  below, 
Sweet  comfort  to  their  bleeding  hearts 

Might  from  your  music   flow. 
Alas !    your  bells  were  silenced  all, 

Hushed  by  relentless  foes, 
Though  once  above  the  battle's  din 

Your  solemn  protest  rose. 
You  tolled  amid  the  cannon's  peal 

"When  to   our  doors  the  tiger  crept, 
And  mothers  mourned  their  half-grown  sons, 

While  babes  their  grand-sires  wept. 
Yes  !    let  the  foe  in  scorn  exclaim 

We  robbed  the  cradle  and  the  grave, 
All !    all  that  woman's  heart  could  give 

Old  Blandford"s  .daughters  freely  gave. 
And  now,  when  every  hope  is  crushed, 

With  bleeding  hearts  they  kneel, 
And  fancy  that  your  chimes,  St.  Paul's, 

Can   only  requiems  peal ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  337 


LINES   TO   LEE. 

(Written  at  the  time  of  Hooker's  invasion.) 

BY    MRS.    C.    A.    WARFIELD,   OF    KY. 

-They  are  pouring  down  upon  you — 

Gallant  Lee — 
As  streams  from  mountain  sources 

Seek  the  sea. 

Four  serried  lines  advancing, 
With  swords  and  banners  glancing, 
With  horses  plumed  and  prancing 

Fast  and  free —  4 
Bugles  -blowing — banner's  flowing, 
For  a  nation's  overthrowing, 
'Tis  a  wonderful  out  going 

Jubilee  ! 

As  came  the  haughty    Persian, 

Press  they  on  ! 
But  we  have    not  yet  forgotten 

Marathon  ! 

And  through  the  memory  passes, 
With  all  its  mighty  masses. 
The  battle  of  Manassas 

Lost  and  won ! 

Bugles  blowing — banners  flowing, 
For  a  nation's  overthrowing, 
All  the  North  to  battle  going 

Back  to  run  ! 


338  5  0  V  T  HER  N    T  OE  M  S 

• 
Now  God  in  Heaven  be  with  you, 

Noble  chief, 
For  the  time  of  your  probation 

Waxes  brief — 

Your  foeinen  thrice  outnumber 
The  army  clad  in  umber, 
Whom  no  pomps  of  war  encumber, 

"Light  and  Lief"  — 
Bugles  blowing — banners  flowing, 
We  take   comfort  in   the   knowing 
Sometimes  after  great  cock-crowing 

Come  to  grief! 

May  you  turn  the  tide  of  battle, 

Dauntless  Lee ! 
Hurling  back  the  wreck  of  armies, 

Like  the  sea. 

Your  force  is  scant  and  meagre, 
Compared  to  the  beleaguer, 
But  every  heart  is  eager 

To  be  free! 

"Bugles  blowing — banners  flowing" 
Can  make  no  braver  showing 
Than  the  South  to  battle  going 

Under  thee  ! 

Than  the  South  the  North  repelling,* 
While  her  mighty  heart  is  swelling, 
And  every  pulse  is  glowing 
With  the  fame  of  thy  bestowing 

Robert   Lee ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  339 


•LEE   TO   THE   REAR. 

The  following  poetic  version  of  a  remarkab'e  and  well  remembered 
incident  in  one  of  the  Wilderness  lights,  is  from  the  pen  of  John 
R.  Thompson,  formerly  editor  of  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger, 
Richmond,  Va.  It  was  Avritten  for,  and  appears  in  The  Crescent 
Monthly  : 

Dawn  of  a  pleasant  morning  in   May 
Broke  through  the  Wilderness  cool  and  gray, 
While  perched  in  the  tallest  tree-tops,  the  birds 
Were  carolling  Mendelssohn's  "  Songs  without  words." 

Far  from  the  haunts  of  men  remote, 
The  brook  brawled  on  with  a  liquid  note, 
And  nature,  all  tranquil  and  lovely,  wore 
The  smile  of  the  spring,  as  in  Eden  of  yore. 

Little  by  little  as  daylight  increased, 

And  deepened  the  roseate  flush  in  the  East — 

Little  by  little,  did  morning  reveal 

Two  long  glittering  lines  of  steel ; 

Where  two  hundred  thousand  bayonets  gleam, 
Tipped  with  the  light  of  the  earliest  beam, 
And  the  faces  are  sullen  and  grim  to  see, 
In  the  hostile  armies  of  Grant  and  Lee. 

All  of  a  sudden   ere  rose  the  sun, 
Pealed  on  the  silence  the  opening  gun — 
A  little  white  puff  of  smoke  there  came, 
And  anon  the  valley  was  wreathed  in  flame. 


340  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Down  on  the  left  of  the  rebel  lines, 

Where  a  breastwork  stands  in  a  copse  of  pines, 

Before  the  rebels  their  ranks  can  form, 

The  Yankees  have  carried  th<5  place  by  storm. 

Stars  and  Stripes  o'er  the  salient   wave, 
Where  many  a  hero  has  found  a  grave, 
And  the  gallant  Confederates  strive  in  vain 
The  ground  they  have  drenched  with  their  blood  to 
regain ! 

Yet  louder  the  thunder  of  battle  roared — 
Yet  a  deadlier  fire  on  their  columns  poured — 
Slaughter  infernal  rode  with  despair, 
Furies  twain,  through  the  smoky  air. 

Not  far  off  in  the  saddle  there  sat, 

A  grey-bearded  man  in  a  black  slouched  hat ; 

Not  much  moved  by  the  fire  was  he 

Calm  and  resolute  Robert  Lee. 

Quick  and  watchful,  he  kept  his   eye 
On  two  bold  rebel  brigades  close   by — 
Reserves,  that  were  standing  (and  dying)  at  ease, 
While  the  tempest  of  wrath  toppled  over  the  trees. 

For  still  with  their  loud,   deep,  bull-dog  bay, 
The  Yankee  batteries  blazed  away, 
And  with  every  murderous  second  that  sped 
A  dozen  brave  fellows,  alas  !    fell  dead. 

The  grand  old  grey-beard  rode  to  the  space, 
Where  death  and  his  victims  stood  face  to  face, 
And  silently  waved  his  old  slouched  hat — 
A  world  of  meaning  there  was  in  that ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  341 

"Follow  me!    Steady!    We'll  save  the  day!" 
This  was  what  he  seemed  to  say  ; 
And  to  the  light  of  his  glorious  eye 
The  bold  brigades  thus  made  reply — 

"We'll  go  forward,  but  you  must  go  back" — 
And  they  moved  not  an  inch  in  the  perilous  track  : 
"Go  to  the  rear,   and  we'll,  send  them  to  h — !" 
And  the  sound  of  the  battle  was  lost  in  their  yell. 

Turning  his  bridle,   Robert  Lee 
Rode  to  the  rear.     Like  the  waves  of  the  sea, 
Bursting  their  dikes  in  their   overflow, 
Madly  his  veterans  dashed  on  the  foe. 

And  backward  in  terror  that  foe  was  driven, 
Their  banners  rent  and  their  columns  riven, 
Wherever  the  tide  of  battle  rolled 
Over  the  Wilderness,   wood  and  wold. 

Sunset   out  of  a  crimson   sky, 

Steamed   o'er  a  field   of  ruddier  dye, 

And  the  brook  ran  on  with   a  purple   stain, 

From  the  blood  of  ten  thousand  foemen  slain. 

Seasons  have  passed  since  that  day   and  year — 
Again   o'er  its  pebbles  the  brook   runs  clear, 
And  the  field  in  a  richer  green   is   drest 
Where  the  dead  of  the  terrible  conflict  rest. 

Hushed  is  the  roll  of  the  rebel  drum, 

The   sabres  are  sheathed,  and  the  cannon  are  dumb, 

And  Fate,  with  pitiless  hand,  has  furled 

The  flag  that  once  challenged  the  gaze  of  the  world  ; 

But  the  fame   of  the  Wilderness  fight  abides  ; 

And  down  into*  history    grandly  rides, 

Calm  and  unmoved  as   in  battle   he   sat, 

The  Grey-bearded  Man  in  the  black  slouch  hat. 


342  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


GENERAL    LEE    AT    THE    BATTLE    OF    THE 

WILDERNESS. 

BY  TP;NI:LI,A. 

There  he  stood,  the  grand  old  hero,  great  Virginia's 
god-like  son, 

Second  unto  none  in  glory  ;    equal  of  her  Washington  : 

Gazing  on  his  line  of  battle,  as  it  wavered  to  and  fro, 

'Neath  the  front  and  flank  advances  of  the  almost  con 
quering  foe  : 

Calm  as  was  that  clear  May  morning,  ere  the  furious 
death-roar  broke 

From  the  iron-throated  war  lions  crouching  'neath  the 
clouds  of  smoke  ; 

Cool,  as  though  the  battle  raging  was  but  mimicry  of 
fight, 

Each  brigade  an  ivory  castle,  and  each  regiment  a 
knight, 

Chafing  in  reserve  beside  him,  two  brigades  of  Texans 
lay, 

All  impatient  for  their  portion  in  the  fortune  of  the 
day. 

Shot  and  shell  are  'mong  them  falling,  yet  unmoved 
they  silent  stand, 

Longing — eager  for  the  battle,  but  awaiting  his  com 
mand. 

Suddenly  he  rode  before  them,  as  the  forward  line  gave 
way, 

Raised  his  hat  with  courtly  gesture,  "  Follow  me  and 
save  the  day  !  " 

But,  as  though  by  terror  stricken,  still  and  silent  stood 
that  troop, 

Who  were  wont  to  rush  to  battle  with  a  fierce  aveng 
ing  whoop ; 


0  F    T  11  K     W  A  R  .  843 


It  was  but  a  single  moment,  then   a  murmur  through 
them   ran 

Heard  above  the  cannon's  roaring,   as  it   passed  from 
man  to  man, 

"You  go  back,  and  we'll  go  forward!"   now  the  wait 
ing  leader  hears, 

Mixed  with  deep,  impatient,  sobbing,  as  of  strong  men 
moved   to  tears. 

Once  again    he  gives  the   order,  "  I  will   lead  you  on 
the  foe,"- 

Then,   through  all   the  line  of  battle   rang  a  loud  de 
termined   "  No  !  " 

Quick    as   thought   a   gallant    Major,  wTith  a  firm  and 
vice-like  grasp, 

Seized  the  General's  bridle  shouting,   "  Forward,  boys  ! 
I'll   hold   him   fast." 

Then   again  the  hat  was  lifted,    "  Sir,  I  am  the  older 
man, 

Loose  my  bridle,   I   will  lead  them,  "    in  a  measured 
tone  and   calm. 

Trembling  with  suppressed  emotion,    with  intense   ex 
citement  hot, 

In  a  quivering  voice  the  Texan,  li  No,  by  God,  Sir,  you 
shall    not !  " 

By   them  swept  the   charging   squadron,   with   a  loud 
exultant  cheer, 

"  We'll  retake  the  salient,  General,  if  you'll  watch  us 
from  the   rear." 

And  they  kept  their  word  right  nobly,  sweeping  every 
foe  away. 

With  that  grand  grey-head   uncovered,   watching  how 
they  saved  the  day, 

But  the  god-like    calm  was    shaken,    which    no    battle 
shock  could   move, 

By  this  true,  spontaneous  token  of  his  soldiers'  child 
like  love. 


344  SO  V1UERN    POEMS 

"THE   CAVALIER'S  GLEE." 

BY     CAPT.     BLACKFORD,     OF     GEN.     STUART?S     STAFF. 
AIR— The  Pirate's  Glee. 

Spur  on  !  spur  on  !  we  love  the  bounding 

Of  barbs  that  bear  us  to  the  fray ; 
"  The  charge  "  our  bugles  now  are  sounding, 
And  our  bold  Stuart  leads  the  way. 
The  path  to  honor  lies  before  us, 
Our  hated  foemen  gather  fast ; 
At  home  bright  eyes  are  sparkling  for  us, 
And  we'll  defend  them  to  the  last. 

Spur  on  !  spur  on  !  we  love  the  rushing 

Of  steeds  that  spurn  the  turf  they  tread  ; 
We'll  through  the  Northern  ranks  go  crushing, 
"With  our  proud  battle  flag  o'erhead. 
The  path  of  honor  lies  before  us, 
Our  hated  foemen  gather  fast ; 
At  home  bright  eyes  are  sparkling  for  us, 
And  we'll  defend  them  to  the  last. 

Spur  on  !  spur  on  !  we  love  the  flashing, 

Of  blades  that  battle  to  be  free  ; 
'Tis  for  our  Sunny  South  they're  clashing — 
For  household  gods  and  liberty. 

The  path  of  honor  lies  before  us, 
Our  hated  foemen  gather  fast ; 
At  home  bright  eyes  are  sparkling  for  us, 
And  we'll  defend  them  to  the  last. 


OF    THE     WAR.  345 

STUART. 

BY    W.    WINSTON    FONTAINE,    OF    VIRGINIA. 

Mourn,  mourn   along  thy  mountains  high  ! 
Mourn,   mourn  along  thine   ocean   wave  ! 
Virginia,   mourn  !  thy   bravest  brave 

Has  struck  for  thee  his  last  good  blow  ! 
0,   south  wind,   breathe  thy   softest  sigh, 
0,   young  moon,   shed  thy  gentlest  light, 
Ye  silver  dews,   come  weep  to-night, 

To  honor  Stuart — lying  low  ! 

The  princeliest  scion  of  a  royal  race,  * 
The  knightliest  of  his  knightly  name, 
The  imperial  brow  encrowned  by  Fame, 

Lies  pallid  on  his  mother's  breast ! 
How  sadly  tender  is  her  face. 
•Virginia  dearly  loved  this  son, 
And  now  his  glorious  course  is  run  ! 

Tearful  she  bows  her  martial  crest. 

She  bows  her  head  in  the  midst  of  war, 
With  booming  .cannon  rumbling  'round, 
'Mid  crash  of  musket  and  the  sound 

Of  drum  and  trumpet  clanging  wild. 
Fierce  cries  of  fight  rise  near  and  far  ; 
But  "  dulce  et  decorum  est" 
For  him,  who  nobly  falls  to  rest — 

Virginia  mourns  her  peerless   child. 

*  Gen.  J.  E.  B.  Stuart  sprung  from  the  Royal  House  of  Scotland. 


346  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

The  fair  young  wife  bewails  her  lord, 
The  blooming  maidens  weep  for  him, 
Fierce  troopers'  eyes  with  tears  grow  dim, 

And  all,  all  mourn  the  chieftain  dead  ! 
Place  by  his  side  his  trusty  sword, 
Now   cross  his  hands  upon  his  breast ! 
And  let  the  glorious  warrior  rest, 

Enshrouded   in   his  banner  red  ! 

No  more   our  courtly   cavalier 

Shall  lead  his  squadrons  to  the  fight ! 

No  more  !   no  more  !   his  sabre  bright 

Shall   dazzling  flash   in  foeman's   eyes. 
No  more  !    no   more  !    his  ringing  cheer 
Shall  fright  the  Northman  in  his  tent. 
Nor,  swift  as  eagle  in  descent, 

Shall  he   the  boastful   foe  surprise. 

But  when  his  legions  meet  the  foe, 
With  gleaming  sabre  lifted  high, 
His  name  shall  be  their  battle  cry, 

His  name  shall  steel  them  in  the  fray  ! 
And  many  a  Northman  'neath  the  blow 
Of  Southern  brand  shall  strew  the  ground, 
While   on  the  breeze  the  slogan  sound 

"  Stuart !    Stuart !  "   shall  ring  dismay. 

Mourn,  mourn   along  thy  mountains  high  ! 
Mourn,  mourn   along  thine   ocean  wave  ! 
Virginia,   mourn  !    thy  bravest  brave 

Has  struck  for  thee  his  last  good  blow  ! 
0,  south   wind,  breathe  thy  softest  sigh, 
0,  young  moon,  shed  thy  tenderest  light, 
Ye  silver  dews,  come  weep  to-night, 

To  honor  Stuart,  lying  low  ! 

May.  1SC4. 


OF    THE     WAR.  347 

GEN.    J.    E.   B.   STUART. 

BY    JNO.     R.     THOMPSON. 

We  could  not  pause,  while  yet  the  noontide  air 
Shook  with  the   cannonade's  incessant  pealing, 

The  funeral  pageant  fitly  to  prepare — 
A   nation's  grief  revealing. 

The  smoke,  above  the  glimmering  woodland  wide 
That  skirts  our  southward  border,  in  its  beauty, 

Marked  where   our  heroes  stood  and  fought  and  died 
For  love   and   faith  and   duty. 

And  still,  what  time  the  doubtful  strife  went  on, 
We  might  not  find  expression  for  our  sorrow  ; 

We  could  but  lay  our  dear,  dumb  warrior  down, 
And  gird  us  for  the  morrow. 

One  weary  year  agone,   when  came  a  lull, 
With  victory,   in  the   conflict's  stormy   closes, 

When   the  glad  Spring,  all  flushed  and  beautiful, 
First  mocked  us  with  her  roses — 

With  dirge   and  bell   and  minute  gun,   we  paid 
Some  few  poor  rites — an   inexpressive  token 

Of  a  great  people's  pain — to  JACKSON'S  shade, 
In   agony   unspoken. 

No  wailing  trumpet  and   no  tolling  bell, 

No   cannon,  save   the  battle's  boom  receding, 

When  STUART  to  the  grave  we  bore  might  tell, 
With  hearts  all  crushed  and  bleeding. 


348  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

The  crisis"  suited  not  with,  pomp,  and  she, 
Whose  anguish  bears  the  seal  of  consecration, 

Had  wished  his  Christian  obsequies  should  be 
Thus  void  of  ostentation. 

Only  the  maidens  came,  sweet  flow'rs  to  twine 
Above  his  form  so  still  and  cold  and  painless, 

Whose  deeds  upon  our  brightest  record  shine, 
Whose  life  and  sword  were  stainless. 

They  well  remembered  how  he  loved  to  dash 
Into  the  fight,  festooned  from  summer  bowers  ; 

How  like  a  fountain's  "spray  his  sabre's  flash 
Leaped  from  a  mass  of  flowers. 

And  so  we  carried  to  his  place  of  rest 
All  that  of  our  great  Paladin  was  mortal : 

The  cross,  and  not  the  sabre,  on  his -breast, 
That  opes  the  heavenly  portal. 

No  more  of  tribute  might  to  us  remain — 

But  there  will  come  a  time  when  Freedom's  martyrs 

A  richer  guerdon  of  renown  shall  gain, 
Than  gleams  in  stars  and  garters. 

I  claim  no  prophet's  vision,  but  I  see 

Through  coming  years — now  near  at  hand,  now  dis 
tant — 
My  rescued  country,  glorious  and   free, 

And  strong  and  self-existent. 

I  hear  from  out  that  sunlit  land,  which  lies 

Beyond  these  clouds  that  gather  darkly  o'er  us, 

The  happy  sounds  of  industry  arise 
In  swelling,  peaceful  chorus. 


OF    THE     WAR.  349 

And,  mingling  with  these  sounds,  the  glad  acclaim 
Of  millions,  undisturbed  by  war's  afflictions, 

Crowning  each  martyr's  never-dying  name 
With  grateful  benedictions. 

In  some  fair  future  garden  of  delights, 

Where  flowers   shall    bloom   and  song-birds   sweetly 

warble, 
Art  shall  erect  the  statues  of  our  knights 

In  living  bronze  and  marble  : 

And  none  of  all  that  bright,  heroic  throng, 

Shall  wear  to  far-off  time  a  semblance  grander — 

Shall  still  be  decked  with  fresher  wreaths  of  song, 
Than  this  beloved  commander. 

The  Spanish  legend  tells  us  of  the  Cid, 
That  after  death  he  rode  erect,  sedately, 

Along  his  lines,  even  as  in  life  he  did, 
In  presence  yet  more  stately  : 

And  thus  our  STUAKT,  at  this  moment,  seems 
To  ride  out  of  our  dark  and  troubled  story 

Into  the  region  of  romance  and  dreams, 
A  realm  of  light  and  glory — 

And  sometimes,  when  the  silver  bugles  blow, 
That  ghostly  form,  in  battle  re-appearing, 

Shall  lead  his  horsemen  headlong  on  the  foe, 
In  victory  careering  ! 


17 


350  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


SEMMES'    SWORD. 

"  Shame,  "  cried  Amyas,  hurling  his  sword  far  into  the  sea.  "  To 
lose  ray  right — mv  right,  when  it  was  in  my  very  grasp.  Unmer 
ciful  !  " — Amyas  Leiph,  Kingsley. 

Into  the  sea  he  hurled  it, 

Into  the   weltering  sea, 
The  sword  that  had  led  so  often 

The  onset  of  the  free  ; 
And  like  a  meteor   cleaving 

Its  pathway  through  the   watery  way, 
Went  down  the  gory  falchion, 

To  lie  in  the   depths  for  aye. 

Go  sword  !    no  hand  of  foeman 

Shall  grasp  thy  peerless  blade  ; 
On  thy  path  of  fire   I  follow, 

With  a  spirit  undismayed, 
Even  in  the  hour  of  anguish, 

With  my  gallant  ship  a  wreck, 
The   comfort  that  no  captor 

Shall  ever  tread  her  deck. 

'Tis  comfort  that  in  freedom 

I   draw  my  latest  breath, 
And  that  with  ye  my  brethren, 

I   drink  the   cup   of  death  ; 
We  have  roved  the  sea  together, 

We  have  proved  our  country's  might, 
And  we  leave  to  the  God  of  battles 

The   rescuing  of  the   right. 


OF    THE     WAR.  351 

The   noble  Alabama 

Was  sinking  -as  he   stood, 
Her   cross  and  stars  still  flying,* 

Her  bulwarks  stained  with  blood, 
Down  with  her  band  of  martyrs, 

She  settled  to  her  doom, 
While  the  coward  cannon  thundered  f 

Above  her  living  tomb. 

But  as  a  desert  courser 

Bears  his  master  from  the  fray, 
So  the  billows  bore  their  hero 

On  their  foaming  crest  that  day, 
Forth   plunged  the  gallant  Deerhound, 

To  snatch  him  from  the  wave, 
For  the  hand  that  ruled  the  tempest, 

Was  stretched  above  the  brave. 

BBECHMOBE,  1866. 


*  It  is  acknowledged  that  she  sunk  without  striking  her  flag, 
t  The  Alabama  was  fired  on  while  sinking. 


352  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


OH  !    NO,  HE'LL  NOT   NEED  THEM  AGAIN. 

To  Rev.  A.  J.  Ryan,  Knoxviile,  Tenn.,  the  following  stanzas  are 
affectionately  inscribed  by  his  friend,  J.  D.  Sullivan  : 

These  stanzas  are  founded  upon  the  following  facts,  related  to  me 
by  a  gentleman  whose  veracity  is  unquestionable.  On  the  morn 
ing  of  the  battle  of  Franklin,  Tenn.,  Maj.-Gen.  Patrick  Cleburne, 
C.  S.  A.,  while  riding  aloriir  the  line  encouraging  his  nen,  be 
held  an  old  friend —a  Captain  in  his  command — h  s  feet  bleeding 
from  cold  and  other  causes.  Alighting  from  his  horse,  he  asked 
the  Captain  to  "  please  "  pu'l  off  his  boots.  The  Captain  did  so, 
when  Gen.  Ch-burne  then  told  him  to  try  them  on  ;  this  the  Cap 
tain  also  did.  Gen.  Cleburne  then  mounted  his  ho-se,  told  the 
Captain  he  was  tired  of  wearing  them,  and  could  do  very  well 
without  them.  He  would  hear  of  no  remonstrance,  and  bidding 
the  Captain  good  bye,  rode  awny.  In  this  condition,  he  was 
killed,  and  in  this  condition  he  "was  found. 

Oh!    no,    he'll   not  need  them  again, 

No  more  will  he  wake  to   behold 
The  splendor  and  fame   of  his  men, 

The  tale  of  their  victories  is  told ! 
No  more  will  he  wake  from  that  sleep 

Which  he  sleeps  in  his  glory  and  fame, 
While  his  comrades  are  left  here   to  weep 

O'er    Cleburne,  his  grave   and  his  name. 

Oh  !    no,   he'll  not  need  them  again, 

No   more   will  his  banner   be   spread 
O'er  the    fields   of  his  gallantry's  fame  ; 

The   soldier's  proud  spirit  is  fled. 
The  soldier  who  rose   'mid  applause 

From  the   humble-most  place  in   the  van — 
I   sing  not  in   praise  of  the   cause, 

But  rather  in  praise   of  the  man. 


OF    THE     WAR.  353 

Oh !    no,   he'll   not  need  them   again, 

He  has  fought  the  last  battle  without  them, 
For  barefoot  he   too  must  go   in, 

While  barefoot  stood  comrades   about  him. 
And  barefoot  they  proudly  marched  on 

With  blood  flowing  fast  from  their  feet ; 
They  thought  of  the  past  vict'ries  won, 

And  the  foes  that  they  now  were  to  meet. 

Oh  !    no,   he'll   not  need  them  again, 

He  is  leading  his  men  to  the   charge — 
Unheeding   the  shells  or  the  slain, 

Or  the  shower  of  bullets  at  large. 
On  the  right,   on  the   left,   on  the  flanks, 

He   dashingly  pushes  his  way, 
While  with  cheers,   double-quick  and  in   ranks, 

His  soldiers  all  followed  that  day. 

Oh  !  no,   he'll  not  need  them  again, 

He  falls  from  his  horse  to  the  ground, 
Oh  anguish  !    oh  sorrow  !    oh  pain  ! 

In  the  brave  hearts  that  gathered  around. 
He  breathes  not  of  grief,  nor  a  sigh 

On  the  breast  where  he  pillowed  his  head, 
Ere  he  fixed  his  last  gaze  upon  high, 

"  Tm  gone,   but  fight  on  boys !  "  he  said.* 

Oh  !    no,   he'll   not  need  them  again, 

But  treasure  them  up  for  his  sake  ; 
And  oh,  should  you  sing  a  refrain 

Of  the  memories  they  still  must  awake  ! 
Sing  it  soft  as  the  summer  eve-breeze, 

Let  it  sound  as  refreshing  and  clear, 
Though  grief-born,  there's  that  which  can  please 

In  thoughts  that  are  gemmed  with  a  tear ! 


*  A  Confederate  officer,  within  a  few  f>'et  of  Cleburne  when  he  fell,  says  his 
last  words  were :     "  I'm  killed,  boys,  but  fight  it  out  I  "'      •     • 


354  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

SUMTER   IN   RUINS. 

BY  W.  GILMORE  SIMMS,  ESQ. 

Ye  batter  down  the  lion's  den, 

But  yet  the  lordly  beast  goes  free ; 
And  ye  shall  hear    his  roar   again, 
From  mountain  height,  from  lowland  glen, 
From  sandy  shore  and  reedy  fen, — 
Where'er  a  band  of  freeborn  men, 
Rears  sacred  shrines  to  liberty. 

The   serpent  scales  the   eagle's  nest, 

And  yet   the  royal  bird,   in  air, 
Triumphant  wins  the  mountain's  crest, 
And  sworn  for  strife,  yet  takes  his  rest, 
And  plumes  to  calm  his  ruffled  breast, 
Till,  like  a  storm-bolt  from  the  west, 
He  strikes  the  invader  in  his  lair. 

What's  loss  of  den,  or  nest,  or  home, 

If,  like  the  lion,  free  to  go  ; — 
If,  like  the  eagle,  winged  to  roam, 
We  span  the  rock  and  breast  the  foam, 
Still  watchful  for  the  hour  of  doom, 
When,  with  the  knell  of  thunder-boom, 
We  bound  upon  the  serpent  foe  ! 

Oh !    noble  sons  of  lion  heart ! 

Oh !    gallant  hearts  of  eagle  wing ! 
What  though  your  batter'd  bulwarks  part, 
Your  nest  be  spoiled  by  reptile  art, — 
Your  souls  on  wrings  of  hate,  shall  start 
For  vengeance,  and  with  lightning  dart, 

Rend  the  foul  serpent  ere  he  sting  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  355 

Your  battered  den,  your  shattered  nest, 
Was  but  the  lion's  crouching  place  ; — 

It  heard  his  roar,  and  bore  his  crest, 

His,  or  the  eagle's  place  of  rest ; — 

But  not  the  soul  in  either  breast ! — 

This  arms  the  twain,  by  freedom  bless'd, 
To  save  and  to  avenge  their  race  ! 


POLK. 

BY     H.     L.     FLASH. 

A  flash  from  the  edge  of  a  hostile  trench, 

A  puff  of  smoke,  a  roar, 
Whose  echo  shall  roll  from  the  Kennesaw  hills 

To  the  farthermost  Christian  shore, 
Proclaims  to  the  world  that  the  warrior-priest 

Will  battle  for  right  no  more  ! 

And  that  for  a  cause  which  is  sanctified, 
By  the  blood  of  martyrs  unknown — 

A  cause  for  which  they  gave  their  lives, 
And  for  which  he  gave  his  own — 

He  kneels,  a  meek  ambassador, 

At  the  foot  of  the  Father's  Throne. 

And  up  to  the  courts  of  another  world 

That  angels  alone  have  trod, 
He  lives,  away  from  the  din  and  strife 

Of  this  blood-besprinkled  sod — 
Crowned  with  the  amaranthine  wreath 

That  is  worn  bv  the  blest  of  God. 


356  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

JOHN   PEGRAM. 

Fell  at  the  head  of  his    Division,  February  6,   18G5.— Aged  33. 

BY     W.    GORDON     M'CABF. 

What  shall  we  say  now  of  our  gentle  knight, 
Or  how  express  the  measure  of  our  woe 

For  him  who  rode  the  foremost  in  the  fight, 

Whose  good  blade   flashed   so   far  amid  the   foe  ? 

Of  all  his  knightly   deeds  what  need  to  tell — 
That  good  blade  now  lies  fast  within  its  sheath  ; 

Wliat  can  we   do  but  point  to  where  he   fell, 
And  like  a  soldier,  met  a  soldier's  death  ? 

We  sorrow  not  as  those  who  have  no  hope  ; 

For  he  was  pure  in  heart  as  brave   in   deed — 
God  pardon   us,   if  blind  with  tears  -we  grope, 

And  love  be  questioned  by  the  hearts  that  bleed. 

And  yet — oh  !  foolish  and  of   little  faith  ! 

We  cannot  choose  but  weep  our  useless  tears  ; 
We  loved  him  so!  we  never  dreamed  that  death 

Would  dare  to  touch  him  in  his  brave  young  years 

Ah !  dear,  browned  face,  so  fearless  and  so  bright ! 

As  kind  to  friend  as  thou  wast  stern  to  foe — 
No  more -we'll  see  thee  radiant  in  the  fight, 

The  eager  eyes — the  flush  on  cheek  and  brow  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  357 

No  more  we'll  greet  the  lithe  familiar  form 
Amid  the  surging  smoke  with  deaf 'ning  cheer  ; 

No  more   shall  soar  above  the  iron  storm 

Thy  ringing  voice  in  accents  sweet  and  clear. 

Aye  !  he  has  fought  the  fight  and  pass'd  away — 
Our  grand  young  leader  smitten  in  the  strife  ; 

So  swift  to  seize   the   chances  of  the  fray, 
And  careless   only   of  his   noble   life. 

He  is  not  dead  but  sleepeth  !     Well   we  know 
The   form   that  lies  to-day  beneath  the  sod 

Shall  rise  that  time   the  golden  bugles  blow 

And  pour  their  music  through  the  courts  of  God. 

And  there  amid  our  great  heroic   dead, 

The  war-worn  sons  of  God  whose  work  is  done, 

His  face  shall  shine,  as  they,  with  stately  tread, 
In  grand  review  sweep  past  the  jasper  throne. 

Let  riot  our  hearts  be  troubled  !     Few  and  brief 
His  days  were  here,  yet  rich  in  love  and  faith  ! 

Lord,  we   believe,  help  Thou   our  unbelief, 

And  grant   Thy  servants  such  a  life   and   death  ! 


17* 


358  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


A   PRAYER  FOR   PEACE. 

BY    S.    T.    WALLIS. 

Peace  !  Peace  !  God  of  our  fathers,  grant  us  Peace  ! 

Unto   our  cry   of   anguish  and   despair 

Give   ear  and  pity  !     From  the  lonely  homes, 

Where  widowed  beggary  and  orphaned  woe 

Fill  their  poor  urns  with  tears — from  trampled  plains, 

Where  the   bright  harvest  Thou  hast  sent  us,  rots — 

The  blood  of  them  who  should  have  garnered  it 

Calling  to  Thee — from  fields  of  carnage,  where 

The   foul-beaked  vultures,  sated,  flap  their  wings 

O'er  crowded  corpses,  that  but  yesterday 

Bore   hearts  of  brothers,   beating  high  with  love 

And  common  hopes  and  pride,  all  blasted  now — 

Father  of  Mercies  !  not  alone  from  these 

Our  prayer  and  wail  are  lifted.     Not  alone 

Upon   the   battle's  seared  and  desolate  track, 

Nor  with  the  sword  and  flame,  is  it,  0  God, 

That  Thou  hast  smitten  us.     Around  our  hearths, 

And  in  the  crowded  streets  and  busy  marts, 

Where  echo  whispers  not  the  far-off  strife 

That  slays  our  loved  ones  ;  in  the  solemn  halls 

Of  safe  and  quiet   counsel — nay,  beneath 

The  temple-roofs  that  we  have  reared  to  Thee, 

And  'mid  their  rising  incense — God  of  Peace  ! 

The  curse  of  war  is  on  us.     Greed  and  hate 

Hungering  for  gold  and  blood  :     Ambition,  bred 

Of  passionate  vanity  and  sordid  lusts, 


OF     THE     WAR.  359 

Mad  with  the  base  desire  of  tyrannous  sway 

Over  men's  souls  and  thoughts  ;  have  set  their  price 

On  human  hecatombs,  and  sell  and  buy 

Their  sons  and  brothers  for  the  shambles.     Priests, 

With  white,  anointed,  supplicating  hands, 

From  Sabbath  unto  Sabbath  clasped  to  Thee, 

Burn,  in  their  tingling  pulses,  to  fling  down 

Thy  censers  and  thy  cross,  to  clutch  the  throats 

Of  kinsmen  by  whose  cradles  they  were  born, 

Or  grasp  the  brand  of  Herod,  and  go  forth 

Till  Rachel  hath  no  children  left  to  slay. 

The  very  name  of  Jesus,  wrrit  upon 

Thy  shrines,  beneath  the   spotless,  outstretched  wings 

Of  Thine  Almighty  Dove,  is  wrapt  and  hid 

With  bloody  battle-flags,  and  from  the  spires 

That  rise  above  them,  angry  banners  flout 

The  skies  to  which  they  point,  amid   the  clang 

Of  rolling  war-songs  tuned  to  mock  Thy  praise. 

All  things  once  prized  and  honored  are  forgot. 
The  Freedom  that  we  worshipped,  next  to  Thee ; 
The  manhood  that  was  Freedom's  spear  and  shield; 
The  proud,  true  heart ;  the  brave,  outspoken  word, 
Which  might  be  stifled,  but  could  never  wear 
The  guise,  whate'er  the  profit,   of  a  lie  ; — 
All  these  are  gone,  and  in  their  stead  have  come 
The  vices  of  the  miser  and  the  slave, 
Scorning  no  shame  that  bringeth   gold   or  power, 
Knowing  no  love,  or  faith,  or  reverence, 
Or  sympathy,  or  tie,  or  aim,  or  hope, 
Save  as  begun  in   self,  and  ending  there. 
With  vipers  like  to  these,  0  blessed  God, 


360  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Scourge  us  no  longer  !     Send  us  down,  once  more, 
Some  shining  seraph  in  Thy  glory  clad, 
To  wake  the  midnight  of  our  sorrowing 
With  tidings  of  Good  Will  and  Peace  to  men  : 
And  if  the  star  that  through  the  darkness  led 
Earth's  wisdom  then,  guide  not  our  folly  now, 
Oh,  be  the  lightning  Thine  Evangelist, 
With  all  its  fiery,  forked  tongues,  to  speak 
The  unanswerable  message  of  Thy  will. 

Peace  !  Peace  !  God  of  our  fathers,  grant  us  Peace ! 
Peace  in  our  hearts  and  at  Thine  altars  ;  Peace 
On  the   red  waters  and  their  blighted  shores ; 
Peace  for  the  leaguered  cities,  and   the  hosts 
That  watch  and  bleed,  around  them  and  within  ; 
Peace   for  the  homeless  arid  the   fatherless  ; 
Peace  for  the  captive  on  his  weary  way, 
And  the  mad  crowds  who  jeer  his  helplessness. 
For  them  that  suffer,  them  that  do  the  wrong — 
Sinning  and  sinned  against — 0,   God !  for  all— 
For  a  distracted,  torn,  and  bleeding  land — 
Speed  the  glad  tidings  !  Give  us,  give  us  Peace  ! 


"SHERMANIZED." 

BY    L.    VIRGINIA    FRENCH. 

In  this  city  of  Atlanta,   on  a  dire  and   dreadful  day, 
'Mid  the  raging  of  the  conflict,  'mid  the  thunder  of  the 

fray, 
In  the    blaze    of   burning    roof-trees,    under   clouds   of 

smoke  and  flame, 
Sprang  a  new  word  into  being  from  a  stern  and  dreaded 

name  ; 
Gaunt  and  grim  and  like  a  spectre,  rose  that  word  before 

the  world, 
From  a  land  of  bloom   and  beauty   into   ritin  rudely 

hurled, 


OF    THE     WAR.  361 

From  a  people  scourged  by  exile,  from  a  city  ostracised, 
Pallas-like  it  sprang  to  being,  and  that  word  is — Sher- 
manized. 

And  forevermore  hereafter,  where  the  fierce  Destroyer 

reigns, 
Where    Destruction    pours    her    lava    over    cultivated 

plains, 
Where  want-  and  woe  hold  carnival — where  bitter  blight 

and  blood 
Sweep   over  prosperous   nations  in   a  strong  relentless 

flood  ; 
Where  the  golden  crown  of  harvest  trodden  into  ashes 

lies, 
And   Desolation   stares   abroad   with  famine-phrenzied 

eyes ; 
Where  the  wrong  with  iron-sceptre  crushes  every  right 

we  prized, 
There  shall  people  groan  in  anguish — "God!  the  right., 

is  Shermanized  /  ' ' 

Man  may  rule  the  raids  of  ruin,  lead  the  legions  that 

despoil, 
From  the  lips  of  honest  labor  dash  the  guerdon  of  his 

toil, 
"Sow  with  salt"    the   smiling   valleys,    and    on    every 

breezy  height 
Kindle  bale-fires  of  destruction,  lurid   on   the   solemn 

night ; 
He   may   sacrifice   the  aged,  and    exult   when   woman 

stands 
'Mid  the  sunken,  sodden  ashes  of  her  home,  with  palsied 

hands 


362  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Drooping  over  hungered  children — man  may  thus  im 
mortalize 

His  name  with  haggard  infamy — his  watchword — "8her- 
manize  ! ' ' 

Nobler  deeds  are  "Woman's  province — she  must  not  de 
stroy,  but  build, 

She  must  bring  the  urns  of  Plenty,  with  the  wine  of 
Pleasure  filled  ; 

She  must  be  the  "  sweet  restorer"  of  this  sunny  South 
ern  land, 

Fill  our  schools,  rebuild  our  churches,  take  the  feeble 
by  the  hand, 

Aid  the  press,  befriend  the  teacher,  give  to  Want  its 
daily  bread, 

And  never,  never  fail  to  weave  above  our  "  noble  dead  " 

The  laurel  garland  due  to  deeds  of  Valor's  high  em 
prise, 

And  won  by  men  whom  failure  could  not  sink,  or — 
Shermanize  / 

With  her  wakened  love  of  labor,  let  her  labor  on  in 
love, 

Still,  in  softness  and  in  stillness,  as  the  starry  circles 
move, 

Bearing  light,  and  bringing  gladness,  from  the  leaden 
clouds  unfurled, 

As  the  soft  rise  of  the  sunlight  bringeth  morning  to  the 
world  ; 

Grandly  urging  on  Endeavor,  as  the  gates  of  Day  un 
close, 

Till  the  "  solitary  place  again  shall  blossom  as  the  rose," 

And  Woman,  the  rebuilder,  shall  be  freely  eulogized 

By  the  triumph  of  her  people,  then  no  longer  Sher- 
manizea  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  363 

God  bless  our  noble  Georgia  !  though  her  soil  was  over 
run, 

And  her  lands  in  desolation  laid,  beneath  an  autumn's 
sun  ; 

With  her  signal  shout  "  To  action  ! "  like  the  boom  of 
signal  guns, 

She  has  roused  the  lion  mettle  of  her  strong  and  stal 
wart  sons, 

May  her  daughters  aid  that  effort  to  rebuild  and  to 
restore, 

Working  on  for  Southern  freedom  as  they  never  worked 
before  ! 

May  Georgia  as  a  laggard  never  once   be  stigmatized, 

And  her  people,  press  or  pulpit,  never  more  be — Sher- 
manized  ! 


THE  SURRENDER  OF   THE  ARMY  OF  NORTH 
ERN   VIRGINIA— APRIL   10,    1865. 

BY    FLORENCE    ANDERSON,     OF    KY. 

Have  we  wept  till  our  eyes  were   dim  with  tears, 
Have  we  borne  the   sorrows  of  four  long  years, 

Only  to  meet  this  sight  ? 
Oh !  merciful  God  !  can  it  really  be, 
This  downfall  awaits  our  gallant  Lee, 

And  the  cause  we  counted  right? 

Have  we  known  this  bitter,  bitter  pain, 
Have  all  our  dear  ones  died  in  vain  ? 
Has  God  forsaken   quite  ? 


364  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Is  this  the   answer  to   every  prayer, 
This  anguish  of   untold  despair, 

This  spirit-scathing  blight  ? 

Heart-broken  we   kneel   on  the  bloody   sod, 
We  hide  from  the  wrath  of  our  angry  God, 

Who  bows  us  in  the   dust ! 
We  heed   not  the   sneer  of  the  insolent  foe, 
But  that  Thou,  0,  God,  should  forsake  us  so, 

In   whom   was   our   only  trust  ! 

Even  strong  men  weep  !  the  men  who  stand 
Fast  in   defense  of  our  native   land, 

These   gallant  hearts  and  brave, 
They  wept  not  the  souls  who  fighting  fell, 
For  the  hero's  death  became  them  well, 

And  they  feared  not  the  hero's  grave  ! 

They  have  marched  through  long  and  stormy  nights, 
They  have  borne  the  brunt  of  a  hundred  fights, 

And  their  courage   never  failed  ! 
Hunger  and  cold,  and  the  summer  heat, 
They  have  felt  on  the  march  and  the  long  retreat, 

Yet  their  brave  hearts  never  quailed  ! 

Now  all  these  hardships  seem  real  bliss, 
Compared  with  the  grief  of  a  scene  like  this, 
This  speechless,  this  wordless  woe  ! 

That  Lee   at  the  head  of  his  faithful  band, 

The  flower  and  pride  of  our  Southern  land, 

Must  yield  to  the  hated  foe  ! 

The   conquered  foe  of  a  hundred  fields  ! 
The  foe  that  conquering,  the   laurel  yields, 
Lee's  sad,  stern  brow  to  grace  ! 


OF    THE     WAR.  365 

For  lie  with  the  pain  of  defeat  in  his  heart, 
Will  bear  in  history  the  nobler  part, 
And  fill  the  loftier  place  ! 

Scatter  the   dust  on  each  bowed  head, 
Happy,  thrice  happy  the  honored   dead, 

Who  sleep  their  last,   long  sleep  ! 
For  we  who   live  in  the   coming  years, 
Beholding  days  ghast]y  with  phantom  fears, 

What  can   we   do  but  weep  ? 


THE   SWORD   OF   ROBERT   LEE. 

BY     MOINA.0 

Forth  from  its  scabbard,  pure  and  bright, 

Flashed  the  sword  of  Lee  ! 
Far  in  the  front  of  the  deadly  fight, 
High  o'er  the  brave,  in  the  cause  of  right, 
Its  stainless  sheen,  like  a  beacon-light, 

Led  us  to  victory. 

Out  of  its  scabbard,  where  full  long, 

It  slumbered  peacefully- 
Roused  from  its  rest  by  the  battle-song, 
Shielding  the  feeble,  smiting  the  strong, 
Guarding  the  right,  and  avenging  the  wrong — 

Gleamed  the  sword  of  Lee  ! 

*  Author  of  the  "  Conquered  Banner." 


366  SO  U  THERN    P  OEMS 

Forth  from  its  scabbard,  high  in  air, 

Beneath  Virginia's  sky — 
And  they  who  saw  it  gleaming  there, 
And  knew  who  bore  it,  knelt  to  swear, 
That  where  that  sword  led  they  would  dare 

To  follow  and  to  die. 

Out  of  its  scabbard  !     Never  hand 

Waved  sword  from  stain  as  free, 
Nor  purer  sword  led  braver  band, 
Nor  braver  bled  for  a  brighter  land, 
Nor  brighter  land  had  a  cause  as  grand, 
Nor  cause,  a  chief  like  Lee  ! 

Forth  from  its  scabbard  !  how  we  prayed 

That  sword  might  victor  be  ! 
And  when   our  triumph  was  delayed, 
And  many   a  heart  grew  sore  afraid, 
We  still  hoped  on,  while  gleamed  the  blade 
Of  noble  Robert  Lee  ! 

Forth  from  its  scabbard  !  all  in  vain  ! 

Forth  flashed  the  sword  of  Lee  ! 
'Tis  shrouded  now  in  its  sheath  again, 
It  sleeps  the  sleep  of  our  noble  slain, 
Defeated,  yet  without  a  stain, 

Proudly  and  peacefully. 


OF     THE     WAR.  367 

GENERAL   ROBERT   E.   LEE. 

BY    TEXELLA. 

As  went  the  knight  with  sword  and  shield, 

To  tournay   or  to  battle  field, 

Pledged  to  the  lady  fair  and  true, 

For  whom   his  knightly   sword  he   drew ; 

You  offered  at  your   country's  call, 

"  Your  life,  your  fortune   and  your  all  ;" 

Pledging  your  sacred  honor   high 

For  her  to  live,   for  her  to   die. 

With  her  you  cast  your  future  lot, 

And   now,   without  one  single   spot 

To   dim  the  brightness  of  your  fame, 

Or  cast  a  shadow   o'er  your  name, 

You  lay  your  sword  with  honor  down, 

And  wear  defeat  as  'twere  a  crown  ; 

Nor  sit,   like  Harms,   brooding  o'er 

A  ruin  which  can  rise   no  more, 

But  from   your  Pavia  bear  away 

A  glory  brightening  every   day. 

Above  the  wreck  which  round  you   lies, 

Calm  and  serene   I  see  you  rise, 

A  grand  embodiment  of   Pride, 

Chastened  by  sorrow  and  allied 

To  disappointment,   but  to  show 

How  bright  your  virtues   'neath  it  glow  ; 

But  who  may  tell  how   deep  its   dart 

Is  rankling  in  your  noble  heart, 

Or   dare   to  pull  the   robe   aside, 

Which   Caesar  draws  his  wounds  to  hide  ! 


368  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

APRIL    TWENTY-SIXTH. 

BY    ANNIE    KETCHUM   CHAMBERS. 

Dreams  of  a  stately  land, 

Where  rose  and  lotus  open  to  the  sun, 
Where  green  ravine  and  misty  mountains  stand, 

By  lordly  valor  won. 

Dreams  of  the  earnest-browed 

And  eagle-eyed,  who  late  with  banners  bright, 
Rode  forth  in  knightly  errantry,  to  do 
Devoir  for  God  and  right. 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  see 

The  crowding  columns  file  through  pass  and  glen  ! 
Hear  the  shrill  bugle !     List  the  rolling  drum, 

Mustering  the  gallant  men  ! 

Resolute,  year  by  year, 

They  keep  at  bay  the  cohorts  of  the  world ; 
Hemmed  in,  yet  trusting  in  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 

The  cross  is  still  unfurled. 

Patient,  heroic,  true, 

And  counting  tens  where  hundreds  stood  at  first; 
Dauntless  for  truth,  they  dare  the  sabre's  edge, 

The  bombshell's  deadly  burst. 

While  we,  with  hearts  made  brave 

By  their  proud  manhood,  work,  and  watch,  and  pray, 
'Till,  conquering  fate,  we  greet  with  smiles  and  tears 

The  conquering  ranks  of  grey  ! 


OF    THE    WAR.  369 

Oh,  God  of  dreams  and  sleep, 

Dreamless  they  sleep — 'tis  we,  the  sleepless,  dream, 
Defend  us  while  our  vigil  dark  we  keep, 

Which  knows  no  morning  beam  ! 

Bloom,  gentle  spring-tide  flowers — 

Sing,  gentle  winds,  above  each  holy  grave, 

While  we,  the  women  of  a  desolate  land, 
Weep  for  the  true  and  brave. 

MEMPHIS,  Tenn. 


DIXIE.* 

BY    ROSA    VERTNER   JEFFREY. 

Dixie,  home  of  love  and  beauty ;    in  the  past  supremely 

blest, 
Now  athwart  thee,  falling  darkly,  see,  a  funeral   shadow 

rest ! 
Joy  is  quenched,  where  e'er  it  gathers,  e'en  as  flocks  of 

vultures  brood, 
Where  the   battle  pageant's  ended,  and  t  there's   nothing 

left  but  blood. 

Erst  thy  halls  were  lit  with  gladness,  and  thy  homes  with 

love  and  mirth , 
Thou    wert   crowned    with    peace    and    plenty,    'mid    the 

fairest  lands  of  earth  ; 
But  that  crown  is  crushed  and  broken  :   mourning  sadly 

veils  thy  brow, 
And    among    all    sorrowing    nations,    lo !    thou    art   the 

dearest  now. 

*  "Dixie"  means  beloved,  sweetheart,  dearest 


370  SO  U  T  H  E  RN    P  0  E  M  S 

Songs  of  joy  are  lost  in  dirges,  music  dies  in  doleful  knells, 
And  where  clustered  rose  and  myrtle,  now  are  wreaths  of 

asphodels  ! 

Husbands,  fathers,  lovers  fallen,  stately  homes  in  ruins  laid, 
Lone   and   poor,  thy  fairest  daughters,  suffering  proudly, 

droop  and  fade. 

Gently  nurtured,  fondly  tended,  reared  to  luxury  and  ease, 
Graceful,  tender,  and  as  shrinking  as  the  young  mimosa 

trees ; 
Loved   of    heroes !    your    endurance    through    the    strife 

transcendent  shines, 
Born   of  sunlight!    'mid    the    tempest   stood   ye,  firm    as 

mountain  pines. 

History  tells  us  of  a  maiden,  pure,  and  beautiful  and  brave, 
Drinking   gore  of  murdered  kinsmen,   her  loved  father's 

life  to  save : 

Who  amid  relentless  judges,  sick  with  horrors,  firmly  stood, 
Saw  it  poured,   and,  death   preferring,   drained  a  goblet 

brimmed  with  blood  !  * 

Ye  have  quaffed  long  draughts  of  sorrow,  bitter  as  that 

cup  of  gore ; 
The  cause  is  lost  for  which  ye  suffered,  and  your  loved 

ones  are  no  more  ! 
Daughters  of  a  stricken  country,  with  your  high  hopes  in 

the  dust, 
Gather  strength  for  earnest  labor,  fortified  \w  faith  and  trust. 

Rend  the  gloom  and  look  beyond  it!  God  is  there,  and 
"God  is  love  !" 

Overwhelmed,  yet  brave  and  constant  —  mourning  Dixie, 
look  above. 

Harvest  fields,  and  homes  and  cities,  ruthless  armies  may 
despoil, 

But  they  cannot  break  your  spirit,  or  destroy  your  teem 
ing  soil. 

*  Lamartine's  History  of  the  Girondists  ''Reign  of  terror." 


OF    THE    W A  R.  371 

Loved  ones  who  have  passed  in  battles,  bid  ye  rise  in 

strength  and  might : 
Southern   hearts  are  full  of  fire,  as  eastern  opals  are  of 

light ! 
Forests  fall,  but  acorns  springing  leave  us  not  of  shade 

bereft ; 
Nations  fall — but  not  to  perish,  with  a  race  of  heroes  left ! 


WEEP!     WEEP! 

Weep  !    for  a  fallen  land, 

For  an  unstained  flag  laid  low  ; 
Freedom  is  lost  !   let  every  heart 

Echo  the  note  of  woe. 
Yes,  weep  1   ye  soldiers  weep  ! 

'Twill  not  your  manhood  stain 
To  mourn  with  grievous  bitterness 

Honor  and  valor  slain  ! 

Weep  !   friendless  woman,  weep 

For  golden  days  of  yore, 
For  ruined  homes,  for  aching  hearts, 

For  loved  ones  now  no  more  ! 
Bravely  they  fought,  and  well, 

That  noble,  hero  band  ; 
Bravely  they  fought,  and  bravely  died, 

To  save  a  suffering  land. 

Our  southern  soil  is  red 

With  the  blood  of  many  slain ; 

Like  sacrificial  wine  it  fell, 
But  the  offering  was  in  vain. 


372  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Peace  smiles  upon  onr  land, 

(A  land  no  longer  free) ; 
That  peace  should  smile  o'er  freedom's  grave, 

And  we  the  smile  should  see! 

Let  southern  men  now  take 

A  long  farewell  of  fame  ; 
Let  southern  men  bow  meekly  down 

To  tyranny  and  shame. 
Great  God  !    that  such  should  live 

To  hail  the  fatal  hour 
That  crushes  freedom  in  the  dust, 

'Xeath  northern  hate  and  power  ! 

But  many  a  patriot's  heart 

Yet  thrills  to  the  war-god's  breath  ; 
And  many  still  would  battle  on 

For  freedom,  'till  the  death. 
Weep  !    weep  !    but  not  for  those 

That  lie  beneath  the  sod : 
For  they  eternal  peace  have  found, 

Around  the  throne  of  God. 

"Peace!"    "peace!"     'Tis  but  a  word — 

A  mockery  in  a  name. 
Alas  !    oh  God,  'tis  but  the  wreath 

That  hides  the  tyrant's  chain  ! 
But,  if  it  thus  must  be, 

And  freedom  ne'er  be  won, 
Then,  Father,  give  us  strength  to  say, 

"Thy  will  on  earth  be  done  !" 


OF   THE    WAR.  373 


PEACE. 

BY  L.  BURROUGHS,  OP  SAVANNAH,  GA. 

They  are  ringing  Peace  on  my  weary  ear, 

No  Peace  to   this  heavy  heart, 
They  are  ringing  Peace,  I  hear  !    I  hear  ! 

Oh  !  God  !  how  my  hopes  depart. 

They  are  ringing  Peace  from  the  mountain  side, 

With  a  hollow  sound  it  comes; 
They  are  ringing  Peace  o'er  the  swelling  tide, 

While  the  billows  sweep  our  homes. 

They  are  ringing  Peace,  and  the  spring-tide  blooms 

Like  a  garden  fresh  and  fair, 
But  our  martyrs  sleep  in  their  silent  tombs, 

Do  they  hear!     0  God!  do  they  hear! 

They  are  ringing  Peace,  and  the  battle  cry, 

And  the  bayonet's  work   are   done, 
And  the   armour  bright  they  are  laying  by, 

From  the  brave  sire  to  the  son. 

And  the  musket's  clang,  and  the  soldier's  drill, 

And  the  tattoo's  nightly  sound, 
We  shall  hear  no   more  with  a  joyous  thrill, 

Peace,  Peace,  they  arc  ringing  around. 


18 


374  s <>  ir  T H v R N  POE M s 

There  are  women  still  as  the  stifled  air 

On  the  burning   desert's  track, 
Not  a  cry  of  joy,  not  a  welcome  cheer, 

And  their  brave  sons  coming  back. 

There  are  fair  young  heads  in  their  morning  pride, 

Like  the  lilies  pale  they  bow, 
Just  a   memory  left  to  the   soldier's  bride, 

God  help,  God  help  them  now  ! 

There  are  martial  steps  that  we  may  not  hear, 
There  are  forms  that  we  may  not  see, 

Death's  muster-roll  they  have  answered  clear, 
They  are  free — thank  God,  some  are  free! 

Not  a  fetter  fast,  not  a  prisoner's  chain 

For  the  noble  army  gone, 
No  conqueror  comes  in  the  heavenly  plain, 

Peace,  Peace  to  the  dead  alone  ! 

They  are  ringing  Peace,  but  strangers  tread 
O'er  the  land  where  our  fathers  trod, 

And  our  birthright  joys  like  a  dream  are  fled, 
And  th'on,  where  art  thou,  oh,  God  ! 

They  are  ringing  Peace.     Not  here,  not  here, 

Where  the  victor's  march  is  set, 
Roll  back  to  the  North  its  mocking  cheer, 

No  Peace  to  the  Southland  yet. 

April.  1805, 


OF    THE    WAR.  375 

THE  PRICE   OF  PEACE. 

BY    "  LUCLA." 

• 

A  woman  paced  with  hurried  step,  her  lone  and  dreary 

cell— 
The    setting   sun   with   golden    ray,   upon    her   dark   hair 

fell, 
Which  lay  dishevelled  on  her  breast-— and  many  a  shred 

of  grey 
Wound  'midst   those  tresses,  sorrow's   gift,  while  on  her 

breast  they  lay. 

She   murmured   disconnected   strains,  as   to    and  fro   she 

passed, 
And  wildly  beamed  her  piercing  eye,  and  on  her  wasted 

face 
A  burning  flush  of  fever  glowed.      Then  rolled  the  lava 

tide 
Of  thought  from  those  thin,  coral  lips,  as  passionate  she 

cried  : 

"  Peace  !   Peace,  they  tell  me,  Peace  has  come ;   they  say 

the  war  is  o'er — 
The  battle  cry,  the  shriek  of  death  shall  fill  the  land  no 

more. 
They  bid  my  heart  rejoice — be    glad,   they  bid  my  tears 

to  cease, 
Yes,   yes,  my  heart,  thou  shouldst   rejoice,  for  thou  hast 

paid  for  Peace  I 


376  s  o  u  T  ii  E  R  x  r  o  K  M  s 

"  Ah,  let  me  count  the  price  once  more,  for  fear  my  lips 

restrain 
The  faintest  note  that   they  should  give  to  the  rejoicing 

strain  ! 

I  had  a  son,  a  noble  boy,  just  entered  manhood's  bloom, 
Bat  he  forgot  his  mother's  tears  when  first  the  cannon's 

boom 
Was  heard  upon  our  southern  shore.     Ah  !  'twas  a  magic 

spell, 

And  gallantly  he  bore  our  flag,  and  gallantly  he  fell — 
I    never    saw    my    boy  again  —  they   say   my   tears    must 

cease, 
But,  Herbert,  drop  for  drop,  with  thine,  my  heart  paid 

blood  for  Peace  ! 

"  Another  son — a  stripling  boy — who  always  by  my  side, 

Frail  as  a  lily,  was  content  forever  to  abide ; 

Not  eighteen  summers  had  I  nursed,  with  all  a  mother's 

care, 
This  tender   plant,  when  orders  came,  my  only  child   to 

tear 
From  mine  embrace.     I  knew  he'd  die,  and  on  my  bended 

knee 
I  begged  his  life — besought  and  wept ;   but  no,  it  could 

not  be  ! 
They  bore  him  off.      He   never   met   the  foe   on   hill  or 

plain, 
But  drooped  and  died,  I  know  not  where — we  never  met 

again  ! 
Oh,  Willie,  with  thy  soft  blue  eyes ! — hush,  hush,  my  tears 

must  cease — 
Yet  darling,  with  thy  dying  groans,  I  paid  in  part  for 

Peace  ! 


07-'    THE     WAR.  377 

"Now  both  are  gone,  whom  have  I  left?     None  but  the 

fond,  true  heart 
Who'd    mingled   tear  for   tear  with    mine ;    he   who    had 

borne  a  part 
In   every  throb   of    anguish  wild    which   still   my  bosom 

rent, 
Whose  eyes  were  dim,  whose  hair  was  grey  with  nights 

of  weeping  spent 
For  these  our  sons.     I  thought  that  we,  through  all  the 

midnight  gloom, 
Would    hand   in   hand,  walk  mournfully  together   to  the 

tomb. 

"But  war,  insatiate,  claimed   him   too.     I  saw  him   too 

depart, 
And  something  made  of  stone  I  think,  was  given  me  for 

a  heart : 

I  could  not  weep  for  many  a  day;  I  was  alone  —  alone 
With   that   cold  weight   within    my  breast  —  that    heavy 

heart  of  stone  ! 

''Tears   came    and    melted    it    at    last.       In    prison   far 

away, 
Heavy  and  worn,  uncared  for,  too,  he  languished  day  by 

day; 
But  Herbert  and  our  Willie  came,  and  bade  the  captive 

go; 

They  broke  his  chains!  I  know  they  did  —  the  angels 
told  me  so  ! 

And  when  they  bore  his  soul  aloft,  and  bade  his  suffer 
ings  cease, 

I  paid  in  spirit  on  his  grave  all  that  I  owed  for 
Peace  ! 


373  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

"  Must  I  rejoice  ?    perchance  I  might ;    but  was  this  all 

the  price  ? 
Ah  !    did    my  jewels,  did    my  tears,    my   broken    heart 

suffice  ? 
No  !    count  upon  the  battle-field  ten  thousand   nameless 

graves  ; 
Call  on  the  winds  for  sighs  and  groans ;  go  tell  the  ocean 

waves 
To    bring    their    dead,  the    prison  walls  to   shriek   their 

sickening  tales  ! 

Concentrate,  if  you've  power,  to-night,  widows  and  orph 
ans'  wails, 
Heap  broken  hearts  on  broken  hearts,  till  Pity  bids  you 

cease, 

And  you'll  have  not  half  the  price  that  ice  have  paid 
for  Peace  ! 

"  They  say  I'm  mad.     It  may  be  so.     The've  bound  me 

in  this  cell ; 
I  know  not  when  they  brought  me  here,  and  nothing  can 

I  tell 
Of    Heaven    above  or   earth   beneath  ;   but  oh  !    'till   life 

shall  cease, 
Though  reason's  gone,  the  price  Pll  know  ivhich  I  have 

paid  for  Peace!" 


OF    THE    WAR.  379 

ACCEPTATION. 

BY  MRS.   MARGARET  J.  PRESTON. 

We  do  accept  thee,  heavenly  Peace ! 

Albeit  thou  comest  in  a  guise 

Unlocked  for — undesired,  our  eyes 
Welcome,  thro'  tears,  the  kind  release 
From  war,  and  woe,  and  want — surcease 
For  which  we  bless  thee,  holy  Peace  ! 

We  lift  our  foreheads  from  the  dust; 
And  as  we  meet  thy  brow's  clear  calm, 
There  falls  a  freshening  sense  of  balm 

Upon  our  spirits.     Fear — distrust — 

The  hopeless  present  on  us  thrust — 

We'll  front  them  as  we  can,  and  must. 

War  has  not  wholly  wrecked  us  :    still 

Strong  hands,  grand  hearts,  stern  souls  are  our's — 
Proud  consciousness  of  quenchless  powers — 

A  Past,  whose  memory  makes  us  thrill — 

Futures  uncharactered — to  (ill 

With  heroisms — if  we  will  ! 

Then  courage,  brothers  !     Tho'  our  breast 
Ache   with  that  rankling  thorn,  despair, 
That  failure  plants  so  sharply  there — 
No  pang,  no  pain  shall  be  confessed  : 
We'll  work  and  watch  the  brightening  west, 
And  leave  to  God  and  heaven,  the  rest ! 


380  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

VIRGINIA  CAPTA. 

BY  MRS.   MARGARET  J.  PRESTON. 

Unconquered  captive  close   thine  eye, 
And  draw  the  ashen   sackcloth  o'er, 
And  in  thy  speechless  woe  deplore, 

The  fate  that  would  not  let  thee  die  ! 
• 

The  arm  that  wore  the  shield,  strip  bare ; 
The  hand  that  held  the  martial  rein, 
And  hurled  the  spear  on  many  a  plain — 

Stretch — till  they   clasp  the  shackles  there  ! 

The  foot  that  once  could  crush  the   crown, 
Must  drag  the  fetters  7till  it  bleed 
Beneath  their  weight : — thpu  dost  not  need 

It  now,  to  tread  the  tyrant  down. 

Thou  thought'st  him  vanquished — boastful  trust, 
His  lance  in  twain,  his  sword  a  wreck, 
But  with  his  beel  upon  thy  neck, 

He  holds  thee  prostrate  in  the  dust ! 

Bend,  though  thoti   must,  beneath  his  will, 
Let  no  one  abject  moan  have  place ; 
But  with  majestic  silent  grace, 

Maintain  thy  regal  bearing  still  ! 

Look  back  through  all   thy  storied   past, 
And  sit  erect  in  conscious  pride, 
No   grander  heroes    ever  died — 

No  sterner,  battled  to  the  last ! 


OF    THE    WAR.  381 

Weep,  if  thou  wilt,  with  proud,  sad  mien, 
Thy  blasted  hopes — thy  peace  undone ; 
Yet  brave,  live  on — nor  seek  to  shun 

Thy  fate,  like  Egypt's  conquered  Queen. 

Though  forced  a  captive's  place  to  fill, 

In  the  triumphal  train — yet  there, 

Superbly,  like  Zenobia,  wear 
Thy  chains — Virginia  victrix  still  ! 

April  Qth,  1866. 


THE  CONQUERED  BANNER. 

BY    "  MOINA." 
The  Rev.  J.  A.  RYAN,  Catholic  Priest  of  Knoxville,  Diocese  of  Nashville,  Term. 

Furl  that  Banner,  for  'tis  weary, 
Round  its  staif  'tis  drooping  dreary ; 

Furl  it,  fold  it,  it  is  best: 
For  there's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
And  there's  not  a  sword  to  save  it, 
And  there's  not  one  left  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  which  heroes  gave  it ; 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it ; 

Furl  it,  hide  it — let  it  rest. 

Take  that  Banner  down,  'tis  tattered, 
Broken  is  its  staif  and  shattered, 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered, 

Over  whom  it  floated  high  ; 
Oh  !  'tis  hard  for  us  to  fold  it, 
Hard  to  think  there's  none  to  hold  it, 
Hard  that  those  who  once  unrolled  it, 

Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh. 


382  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Furl  that  Banner — furl   it  sadly — 
Once  ten  thousands  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  ten  thousands  wildly,  madly, 

S \vore  it  would  forever  wave — 
Swore  that  foeman's  sword  could  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever, 
'Till  that  flag  would  float  forever 

O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave. 

Furl  it,  for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 

Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low  ; 
And  the  Banner,  it  is  trailing, 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 

Of  its  people  in  their  woe  ; 
For  though  conquered,  they  adore  it, 
Low  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it. 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it, 
Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it, 
And  oh  !  wildly  they  deplore  it,          • 

Now  to  furl  and  fold  it  so. 

Furl  that  Banner,  true  'tis  gory, 
Yet  'tis  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  'twill  live  in  song  and  story, 

Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust : 
For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages, 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages, 
Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages — 

Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must. 

Furl  that  Banner,  softly,  slowly, 
Treat  it  gently — it  is  holy — 

For  it  droops  above  the  dead  ; 
Touch  it  not — unfold  it  never, 
Let  it  droop  there  furled  forever, 

For  its  people's  hopes  are  dead. 

From  the  "Freeman's  Journal,"  June  24M,  ISGii. 


OF    THE    WAR.  383 

"FOLD  IT  UP  CAREFULLY." 

A  REPLY  TO  TUB  LINES  ENTITLED  "THE  CONQUERED  BANNER." 

BY  SIR  HENRY  IIOUGLITON,  BART. 

The  beautiful  lines  entitled  "The  Conquered  Banner,"  have  been  exten 
sively  copied  by  the  Southern  Press,  and  are  now  classed  among  the 
favorite  poems  of  that  section.  The  following  reply,  written  in  England, 
comes  to  us  from  a  friend  in  Virginia,  who  says  it  was  sent  by  the  author 
to  a  gentleman  in  that  State,  and  that  it  has  not  yet  appeared  in  print: 

Gallant  nation,  foiled  by  numbers, 

Say  not  that  your  hopes  are  fled; 
Keep  that  glorious  flag  which  slumbers, 

One  day  to  avenge  your  dead. 
Keep  it,  widowed,  soilless  mothers, 
Keep  it,  sisters,  mourning  brothers, 
Furl  it  with  an  iron  will ; 
Furl  it  now,  but — keep  it  still, 

Think  not  that  its  work  is  done. 
Keep  it  'till  your  children  take  it, 
Once  again  to  hail  and  make  it 
All  their  sires  have. .bled  and  fought  for, 
All  their  noble  hearts  have  sought  for, 

Bled  and  fought  for  all  alone. 
All  alone  !    aye  shame  the  story, 

Millions  here  deplore  the  stain, 
Shame,  alas  !  for  England's  glory, 

Freedom  called,  and  called  in  vain. 
Furl  that  banner,  sadly,  slowly, 
Treat  it  gently,  for  'tis  holy. 
'Till  that  day— yes,  furl  it  sadly, 
Then  once  more  unfurl  it  gladly — 
Conquered  Banner — keep  it  still  ! 

,  October,  lSCf>. 


384  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

CRUCI  DUM  SPIRO,  FIDO. 

BY  J.  C.  M. 

You  may  furl  the  gleaming  star- cross, 

That  lit  a  hundred  fields  ; 
And  sing  your  triumphs  o'er  its  loss ; 

'Tis  all  your  power  yields  ! 
Aye,  tear  the  buttons  from  the  grey, 

"  Confederate  "  from  our  scroll ; 
The  heart  will  sear  its  own  decay, 

Ere  ye  can  chain  the  soul ! 

Furl  the  red  banner — scribe  its  tale, 

And  shroud  with  regal  pall ! 
Thrill  the  requiem's  surging  wail, 

While  ye  sound  our  thrall. 
A  dauntless  race  has  owned  its  sway, 

That  cross  baptized  in  flame, 
That  shone  on  Jackson's  deathless  way, 

The  Y  alley -in  arch  of  Fame  ! 

Aye  live  the  years  that  hailed  thy  light — 

Flash  immortality  ! 
Labarum  waving  for  the  Right, 

Claims  yet  our  fealty  ! 
Cruci  duin  spiro,  Jido, 

Echoes  each  fiery  soul — 
The  dead  yet  crown  their  thousand  hills, 

And  point  their  hero-roll. 

"  Subdued  !  "  ye  whisper ;  catch  the  gleam 

That  flashes  from  the  West; 
From  the  staunch  heart  of  Donelson, 

From  Shiloh's  gory  breast ! 
Mansfield,  Belmont,  memories  bring — 

Olustec  and  her  glades — 
And  boldly  Cleburne's  echoes  ring 

From  the  kingly  realm  of  shades ; 


OF    THE    WAR.  385 

And  Charleston,  prouder  in  her  pride, 

More  haughty  in  her  fall, 
Than  when  upon  the  stormy  tide 

She  rang  tli'  evangel  call  ! 
And  last,  those  faces  gaunt  and  grim, 

That  caught  that  April  light ; 
'Neath  that  array,  with  war-smoke  dim, 

Smouldered  heart-fires  of  might. 

Then  furl  our  banner'd  glory 

That  erst  flamed  in  the  fight, 
Ye  cannot  tomb  the  story 

Burned  on  its  stainless  white  ! 
From  Sumter's  battlements  it  calls, 

When  Elliot  guarded  there, 
And  each  proud  fold  a  hero  palls 

Whose  life  nerves  our  despair  ! 

NEW  YORK,  March  20,  18CG. 


LINES  WRITTEN  JULY  15,  1865. 

The  day  that  the  Confederate  soldiers  in  North  Carolina  were  ordered  to 
take  off  their  uniforms. 

BY  A.  L.  D. 

Let  others  sing  of  conquerors  great, 

Far  famed  in  minstrel  story, 
Another,  humbler  theme  I'll  take, 

But  not  less  full  of  glory. 

Their  hireling  troops  let  others  boast, 
Who  fought  for  spoil  and  prey, 

Our  southern  lads  we  love  the  most, 
In  a  private's  suit  of  grey. 


386  S  OUT  HERN    PO  E  MS 

In  vain  before  our  eyes  they  flaunt 
Their  rich  equipments  gay ; 

'Tis  bright  and  costly,  we  must  grant, 
But  still,  'tis  not  the  grey  ! 

Ah  !  who  are  like  our  southern  boys  ? 

And  who  can  match  them,  say  ? 
Who  gladly  left  their  peaceful  joys 

To  don  the  private's  grey. 

Who  faced  the  dangers,  toils  and  strife 
Which  veterans  oft  would  shun, 

And  gladly  gave  their  young,  bright  life, 
Nor  thought  'twas  nobly  done. 

No  meed  of  praise  they  asked,  nor  thought 

A  hero's  name  to  gain  ; 
'Twas  for  their  land  alone  they  fought, 

And  not  for  praise  or  fame  ! 

What  honor  is  in  purple  pall, 
Or  gold  and  diamonds  gay  ? 

Can  they  arouse  the  hearts  of  all, 
Like  a  tattered  suit  of  grey  ? 

Aye  !    poor  and  conquered  though  we  be, 
May  we  never  know  the  day, 

When  we  can  look  unmoved  and  see, 
The  soldier's  suit  of  grey  ! 

And  they  may  force  our  boys  to  part 
With  the  dress  they  so  much  fear ; 

But  ne'er  can  change  our  patriot  heart, 
Or  make  the  grey  less  dear  ! 

And  still  each  morn  and  even-tide, 

The  southern  women  pray, 
"  In  mercy,  Lord,  remember  us, 

And  bless  our  boys  in  grey  !" 

U\LI:ICII,  N.  <'. 


OF    THE    WAR. 


OFF  WITH  YOUR  GREY  SUITS,  BOYS  ! 

Off  with  your  grey  suits,  boys  ! 

Off  with  your  rebel  gear  ! 
It  smacks  too  ranch  of  the  cannon's  peal, 
The  lightning  flash  of  your  deadly  steel, 

And  fills  our  hearts  with  fear. 

The  color  is  like  the  smoke 

That  curled  o'er  your  battle  line  ; 
It  calls  to  mind  the  yell  that  woke, 
When  the  dastard  columns  before  you  broke, 
And  their  dead  wore  your  fatal  sign  ! 

Off  with  your  starry  wreaths, 

Ye  who  have  led  our  van  ! 
For  you  'twas  the  pledge  of  a  glorious  death, 
As  we  followed  you  over  the  glorious  heath, 

Where  we  whipped  them  man  to  man  ! 

Down  with  the  cross  of  stars  ! 

Too  long  has  it  waved  on  high  ; 
'Tis  covered  all  over  with  battle  scars, 
But  its  gleam  the  hated  banner  mars — 

'Tis  time  to  lay  it  by. 

Down  with  the  vows  we  had  made  ! 

Down  with  each  memory  ! 
Down  with  the  thoughts  of  our  noble  dead  ! 
Down,  down  to  the  dust  where  their  forms  are  laid, 

And  down  with  liberty  1 


388  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

WEARING  OF  THE  GREY. 

BY    A    MISSISSIPP1AN. 

The  editor  of  the  Citizen,  introducing  the  following  to  his  readers,  re 
marked  that  it  "lias  never  before  been  published,'1  but  that  it  "is  now 
being  set  to -music  in  Louisville,  and.  will  make  its  appearance  in  a 
short  time." 

Oh,  have  you  heard  the  cruel  news  ?    Alas  !  it  is  too  true  : 
Upon  the  Appomattox  down  went  our  cross  of  blue — 
Our  armies  have  surrendered — we  bow  to  northern  sway, 
And  forevermore  forbidden  is  the  wearing  of  the  gfey  ! 

No  more  on  fields  of  battle  waves  the  banner  of  our  pride, 
In  vain  beneath  its  crimson  folds,  our  Stewart  and  Jackson 

died ; 

Like  a  meteor  of  evening,  that  flag  has  passed  away, 
And  low  are  they  who  guarded  it,  the  wearers  of  the  grey. 

I  met  a  Mississippian,  right  hard  my  hand  he  wrung, 
The  tear  was  in  his  dauntless  eye,  and  faltering  was  his  tongue, 
As  in  broken  words  he  told  me  of  that  disastrous  day, 
Which  made  a  badge  of  infamy  the  wearing  of  the  grey. 

Now,  honor  to  the  soldier  who  still  is  firm  and  true, 

And  shame  upon  the  southern  beast  that  wears  the  foe- 
man's  blue  ! 

While  'round  the  Blue  Ridge  rocky  peak  the  evening 
mist  shall  play, 

We'll,  like  our  mountains,  never  leave  the  wearing  of  the  grey. 

Remember  how  we  scattered  them,  beneath  those  moun 
tains  old — 

How  we  tamed  the  powers  of  the  strong,  the  valor  of  the 
bold, 

When  thund'ring  through  the  bloody  gap,  old  Longstreet 
thrust  his  way  ! 

Remember  this,  and  ne'er  forsake  .the  wearing  of  the  grey. 


OF    THE    WAR.  389 

We  have  lost  all  but  honor — our  banner  bears  no  shame; 
Though   beaten  clown    by  numbers,  we    keep  our  ancient 

fame ; 
And  though  exiles  from  our  country,  in  foreign  lands  we 

stray, 
We'll  not  forget  our  early  love,  but  proudly  wear  the  grey. 

Now,  here's  to  our  companions — the  comrades  true  who 

died, 

In  fore  front  of  the  battle,  closely  fighting  by  our  side  ! 
Though  our  lips  are  little  used  to  prayer,  yet  for  their 

souls  we'll  pray, 
For   they   fell   beneath   our   banner,   for   wearing   of  the 

grey. 

But   a   day  may  yet  be   coming,  boys,  in   future   rolling 

years, 
Which  may  bring  revenge  and  triumph — may  wipe  away 

our  tears — 
When  the  azure  cross  shall  float  again,  no  more  to  pass 

away, 
And   the   token  of  our  victory  be — the  wearing   of  the 

grey. 


OUR    FAILURE. 

BY  THE    AUTHOR   OF    "  SOUTHRONS." 

Yes,  we  have  failed  !     That  iron  word 
Drove  never  home  its  bolt  of  fate 

More  ruthlessly,  than  when  it  barred 
All  egress  from  the  prison  gate 
That  closed  upon  our  sad  estate, 

And  left  us  powerless — in  the  dark, 

A  world's  reproach,  a  nation's  mark. 


390  SO  UT II E  R  A'    P  0  E  M  S 

Failed  ?     Aye,  so  grievously  that  pain 
Is  put  aside  in  pure  amaze, 

As,  at  our  weary  length  of  chain 

And  steel-girt  path  we  stand,  and  gaze 
With  dark  distrust  of  coming  days, 

And  marvel  if  we  be  the  same, 

Who  lit  the  Christian  world  to  flame. 

The  same  who  owned  this  lovely  land 
Now  lying  waste — a  tyrant's  spoil — 

And  saw  its  stately  dwellings  stand 
'Mid  waving  fields  of  fertile  soil, 
Enriched  by  swarthy  sons  of  toil — 

The  princes  of  a  proud  estate — 

Now  stricken,  sterile,  desolate  ! 

The  same  !     Where  be  our  legions  now  ? 
Where  stand  our  homes  so  fair  and  proud  ? 

Where  rings  each  step,  where  beams  each  brow 
Of  those  we  loved — our  martyr  crowd, 
To  home  and  country  nobly  vowed  ? 

Of  sons  and  brothers,  where  the  hope 

That  wreathed  our  splendid  horoscope  ? 

And  where  the  banner,  which  on  high 
We  flung,  with  all  the  pride  of  race, 

An  emblem  from  our  southern  sky, 

Snatched  from  its  sovereign  dwelling  place 
Our  deeds  of  arms  to  gild  and  grace — 

The  flag  our  breezes  loved  to  toss,. 

Our  ark  of  strength — our  Southern  Cross  ? 

All  buried  in  one  common  grave 
Arc  these,  the  glories  of  the  past ; 

Let  the  swamp  cypress  o'er  it  wave, 

The  bittern  sail,  the  eagle  rave, 

The  simoom  sweep,  the  midnight  blast 
Make  requiem  meet !     The  die  is  cast, 

And  we — who  counted  ill  the  cost, 

Who  ventured  all — have  staked  and  lost ! 


OF    THE    WAR.  391 

What  marvel,  then,  if  in  the  burst 
Of  an  incredulous  despair, 

When  fate  has  seemed  to  do  its  worst, 
And  all  proves  false  that  seemed  so  fair, 
Such  words  as  these  should  mock  the  air  ? 

And  that,  mistrusting  fate  and  fame, 

We  question,  "Are  we  still  the  same?" 

Oh,  morbid  doubt !     Oh,  words  of  wind  ! 

I  cast  ye  forth  as  little  worth. 
Forgive  them,  Omnipresent  Mind  ! 

Forgive  them,  brothers,  bound  on  earth 

To  one  poor  heritage  of  dearth, 
And  hear  conviction's  voice  proclaim 
The  potent  truth,  "We  are  the  same!" 

The  same  who  faced  the  northern  hosts 
With  dauntless  hearts  and  shining  spears  ; 

The  same  who  laughed  to  scorn  their  boasts, 
And  proved  the  few  the  many's  peers, 
And  did  in  days  the  work  of  years  ! 

O'erwhelmed — not  conquered— overrun, 

And  desolated,  and  undone. 

Yet  still  the  same — the  very  same  ! 
Believe  it — tremble  and  believe, 

Oh,  tyrants,  who  with  sword  and  flame 
Advanced  to  slaughter  and  bereave, 
Then  stayed  to  torture  and  deceive  ! 

And  we,  who  with  a  faith  sublime 

Endure  our  fate,  abide  our  time  ! 

BEECIIMORE,  KY.,  June  1,  18GG. 


392  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

HERE  AND  THERE. 

A    CONTRAST. 


There's  clashing  of  arms  in  the  Sunny  South, 

There's  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  the  young  men  flock  to  the  dauntless  chief, 

Who  will  lead  them  against  the  foe. 

The  ledger  is  closed  on  the  merchant's  desk, 

And  the  printer  has  left  his  case; 
The  cavalier  mounts  the  horse  from  the  plow, 

The  ranks  of  the  squadron  to  grace. 

From  the  hut  of  logs  in  the  piny  woods, 

Behold  there  is  coming  forth, 
The  rustic,  with  rifle,  trusty  and  true, 

To  do  battle  against  the  North. 

There  is  never  a  quiver  upon  his  lip, 

There  is  never  a  tear  or  a  sigh, 
And  there's  pride  in  the  voice  from  the  window 

That  cheers  while  it  bids  "good  bye." 

She  will  till  the  soil   'till  he  comes   again  ; 

He  can  leave  her  no  money  to  hire 
A  strong  arm  to  guide  the  home-made  plow, 

Or  cut  wood  for  the  winter's  fire. 


OF    THE    WAR.  393 


II. 

Martial  music  is  heard  in  the  busy  North, 

Though  the  battles  are  far  away  ; 
There's   a  call  for  five  hundred  thousand  men 

To  go  forth  to  the  deadly  fray.- 

The  "  speaker  "  appeals  to  the  youthful  and  brave, 

The  minister  echoes  the  call ; 
And   the   "poster"  proclaiming  the   "bounty," 

Looks  down  from   each  fence  and  wall. 

Then  the  laborer,  pausing  in  his  work, 

The  tempting  challenge  reads, 
And  cyphering  proves,  with  a  stick  in  the  dust, 

That  the  bounty  his  hire  exceeds. 

Exceeds  his  wages  for  three  weary  years 

Of  delving  with  spade  and   pick, 
Of  drawing  of  water   and  hewing  of  stone, 

Or  of  bearing  the  hod  of  brick. 

So  away  he  speeds  to  the  desk 

Where  the  mustering  officer  sets, 
And  he  dons  the   blue   and  the  knapsack  too, 

Then  home  with  the  bounty  he  gets. 

From  the  neat,  white  house,  with  his  musket, 

Next  morning  he  goeth  forth : 
There'll  be  bloody  work  in  the  distant  South, 

But  there's  bread  in   that  house  in  the  North. 


394:  SOUTHERN    PO  E  MS 


III. 

The  terrible  battle  is  lost  and  won, 

The  dead  on   the  field   lie  cold, 
The   strength  of  the  North  prevaileth  at  last, 

And  the  tale  of  the  South  is  told. 

She  may  have  been  just  or  she  may  have  been  wrong 
Yet   each   soldier  struck  for  the  right ; 

No   matter  whether  the  stripes  or  the  bars 
Waved  over  him  in  the  fight. 

Liberty's  wings  over  all  were  spread 

As  the  rivals  prepare  for  battle; 
And   Liberty  wept  over  all  the  dead 

When  the  muskets  had  ceased  to  rattle. 

She  smiled  on  the  victor  who  proudly  claimed 

The  sulphury,   smoke-canopied  field  ; 
And  she  wrote  the  names  of  the  vanquished  braves 

In   letters  of  light  on   her  shield. 

IV. 

The  hut  still  stood  in  the  piny  woods, 
Though  the  raiders  the  fence  had  burned, 

They  had   broken   the  plow   and   stolen  the  horse, 
Ere  the  farmer  from  the  war  returned. 

The  child  that  had  blessed  that  lowly  cot 

Was  cold  in  the  new-made  grave ; 
And  the  bread  that  the  lowly  mother  cut, 

Was  a  boon  that  chanty  gave. 


OF    THE    WAR.  395 

The  farmer  returned — he  returned  a  wreck, 

To  the  home  so  cheerful  of  yore  ; 
And  the  care-worn   wife  rushed  forth  to  help 

The  cripple  that  stood  at  the  door. 

The  yeoman  no  longer  could  follow  the  plow, 

Nor  sow  in  the  furrow  it  cleft ; 
And  the  withered  arm  could  not  wield  an  axe, 

If  the  raiders  an   axe  had  left. 

They  sorrowing*  thought  of  the  happy  past ; 

And  the  future  seemed  dark  and  dread, 
For  the  dying  wife  and  the  crippled  brave, 

Must  go  forth  to  beg  their  bread. 


V. 

The  steamer  arrived  almost  covered  by  flags ; 

There   was  joy  in  the  Northern   port, 
And  the   merry  shouts  from  the  crowded  decks, 

Replied  to  the  guns  from  the  fort. 

A  soldier  in  blue — he  was  crippled  too — 
Was  borne  by  his  comrades  to  shore ; 

An  ambulance  waited  to  bear  him  away, 
To  his  little  white  cottage  door. 

The  wife  who  received   him,  though   tears  were  shed, 

Had  never  known  want  or   care, 
For  the  bounty  he  left  was  more  than  enough, 

And  she  told  him  she'd  "  most  of  it "  there. 


396  SOUTHER  N    P  0  K  M  S 

He'd  many  a  good  months  pay  yet  due; 

And  the  leg  he  had  lost  in  the  fight, 
Would  yield  him  a  pension  as  long  as  he  lived, 

And  the  cripple's  heart  beat  light. 

And  happy  he  was  when  they  gave  him  a  stool 

In  the  Treasury  office  next  day, 
And  told  him  his  wages  were  greater  far, 

Than   ever  the  laborer's  pay. 


If  God  ordained   that  in  different  climes 

Men  different  views   should   take, 
Who  dare  aver  they  should  suffer  here 

Who  struggled  for  conscience's  sake  ? 

Yet  the  Southern  cripple,  who  bled  for  the  right 
As  "God  gave  him  the  right  to  know," 

If  perchance  he  saved  from   the  wreck  a  mite, 
Must  support  his  crippled  foe  ! 

And  yet  it  were  heresy,  deadly  and  damned, 

For  him  to  ask  pension  too, 
Enough  that  he  helps  to  pay  for  the  crutch 

That  supports  the  maimed  veteran  in  blue. 

From  the  Sunny  South. 


0  F    THE    WAR.  397 

IN  THE  LAND  WHERE  WE  WERE  DREAMING. 

BY  DAN.  LUCAS,  OF  JEFFERSON  COUNTY,  VA. 

Fair  were  our  visions  !  Oh,  they  were  as  graud 

As  ever  floated  out  of  Fancy  land ; — 

Children  were  we  in  simple  faith, 

But  God-like  children,  whom,  nor  death, 

Nor  threat,  nor  danger  drove  from  Honor's  path, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Proud  were  our  men,  as  pride  of  birth  could  render ; 
As  violets,  our  women  pure  and  tender ; 

And  when  they  spoke,  their  voice  did  thrill 

Until  at  eve,  the  whip-poor-will, 
At  morn  the  mocking-bird,  were  mute  and  still 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

And  we  had  graves  that  covered  more  of  glory, 
Than  ever  taxed  tradition's  ancient  story : 

And  in  our  dreams  we  wove  the  thread 

Of  principles  for  which  had  bled, 
And  suffered  long  our  own  immortal  dead 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Though  in  our  land  we  had  both  bond  and  free, 
Both   were  content;    and  so   God  let  them  be: — 
'Till  envy  coveted  our  sun 
And  those  fair  fields   our  valor  won, 
But  little  recked  we,  for  we  still  slept  on, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


398  SOU  THE  R  N'  P  O  E  MS 

Our  sleep  grew  troubled  and  our  dream  grew  wild — 
Red  meteors  flashed  across  our  Heaven's  field ; 
Crimson  the  moon  ;   between  the  Twins 
Barbed  arrows  fly,  and  then  begins 
Such  strife  as  when  disorder's  Chaos  reigns 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Down  from  her  sun-lit  heights   smiled  Liberty 
And  waved  her  cap  in  sign  of  Victory — 

The  world  approved,  and  everywhere 
Except  where  growled  the  Russian  bear, 
The  good,  the  brave,  the  just  gave  us  their  prayer 

In  the  land  where  we  were    dreaming. 

We  fancied  that  a  Government  was  ours — 

We  challenged  place  among  the  world's  great  powers ; 

We   talked  in   sleep  of  Rank,   Commission, 

Until  so  life-like  grew  our  vision, 
That  he  who  dared  to  doubt,  but  met  derision 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

We  looked  on  high  ;    a  banner  there  was  seen, 
Whose  field  was  blanched  and  spotless  in  its  sheen — 
Chivalry's  cross  its  Union  bears, 
And  vet'rans  swearing  by  their  scars 
Vowed  they  would  bear  it  through  a  hundred  wars 

In  the  land  where  we  were   dreaming. 

A   hero  came   amongst   us  as   we   slept  ; 

At   first  he  lowly  knelt — then  rose   and    wept  -r 
Then    gathering   up   a  thousand  spears 
He   swept  across   the   iieM  <>f  Mars; 

Then   bowed  farewell,  and  walked  beyond   the   stars — 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


OF    THE    WAR.  399 

We  looked  again  :  another  figure  still 
Gave  hope,  and  nerved  each  individual  will — 
Full   of  grandeur,  clothed  with  power, 
Self-poised,  erect,  he  ruled  the  hour 
With  stern,  majestic  sway — of  strength   a  tower 

In  the  land  where  we  were   dreaming. 

As,  while   great  Jove,  in  bronze,  a  warder  God, 
Gazed  eastward   from  the  Forum  where  he  stood, 
Rome  felt  herself  secure  and  free, 
So   "Richmond's  safe,"  we  said,  while  we 
Beheld  a  bronzed  Hero — God-like  Lee, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

As  wakes  the  soldier  when  the  alarum  calls — 
As  wakes  the   mother  when   her  infant  falls — 
As  starts  the  traveller  when   around 
His  sleeping  >couch  the   fire-bells  sound — 
So  woke  our  nation  with   a  single  bound 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Woe  !  woe  is  me  !  the  startled  mother  cried — 
While  we  have  slept  our  noble  sons  have  died  ! 

Woe  !  woe  is  me  !  how  strange  and  sad, 

That  all   our  glorious  vision's   fled, 
And  left    us  nothing  real  but  our  dead 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

And  are  they  really  dead,  our  martyred   slain  ? 

No  !  dreamers !   morn   shall   bid  them  rise   again 
From   every  vale — from  every  height 
On  which  they  seemed  to   die  for  right — 

Their  gallant  spirits  shall  renew  the   fight 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


400  s  °  u  T  n  E  K  X    F  0  E  M  S 

Wake  !  dreamers,  wake  !  none  but  the  sleeping  fail ! 

Our  cause   being  just,  must   in  the  end  prevail  ; 
Once  this  Thyestean  banquet  o'er, 
Grown   strong,  the  few  who  bide  their  hour, 

Shall   rise   and  hurl  the   drunken   guests  from  power 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


THE    BROKEX    MUG. 

* 

BY  A  SOLDIER. 

My  mug  is  broken,  my  heart  is  sad  ! 

What  woes   can   fate  still  hold  in   store  ? 
The   friend   I   cherished   a  thousand   days 

Is  smashed  to  pieces  on  the  floor  ! 

Is  shattered   and  to   Limbo  gone, 
I'll  see   my  mug  no  more  ! 

Relic  it  was  of  joyous  hours 

Whose  golden   memories  still  allure — 

When   coffee  made   of  rye  we   drank, 
And   grey  was   all  the  dress  we  wore! 
When  we  were  paid  some  cents   a   month, 
But  never  asked  for  more  ! 

In   marches  long,  by  day  and  night 
In   raids,  hot  charges,  shocks   of  war; 

Strapped  on   the   saddle   at  my  back 
This  faithful   comrade  still   I   bore — 
This  old  companion,  true  and  tried, 
I'll  never  carry  more  ! 


OF    THE    W A  R.  401 

Bright  days  !  when   young  in  heart  and  hope 
The  pulse  leaped  at  the  words  "La  Gloire  !" 

When   the   grey  people   cried — "hot  fight," 
Why  we   have   one   to   four  ! 
When   but  to   see   the  foeman's  face 
Was   all   they  asked — no   more. 

From   Rapidan   to   Gettysburg- — 

"  Hard  bread  "  behind,  "  sour  krout  "  before — 
This  friend  went  with  the  cavalry 

And  heard   the  jarring   cannon   roar 

In  front  of  Cemetery  Hill — 

Good  heavens  !  how  they'd  roar ! 

Then  back  again,  the  foe  behind, 

Back  to  the   "Old  Virginia   Shore"— 

Some  dead  and  wounded  left — some  holes 
In  flags  the  sullen  greybacks  bore ; 
This  mug  had  made  the  great  campaign, 
And  we'd  have  gone  once  more  ! 

Alas  !   we  never  went  again  ! 

The  red   cross  banner,  slow  but  sure, 
"Fell  back'' — we  bade  to  sour  krout 

(Like   the  lover  of  Lenore) 

A  long,  sad,  lingering  farewell — 
To   taste  its  joys  no   more. 

But  still  we  fought,  and   ate  hard  bread, 
Or  starved- — good  friend  our  woes  deplore  ! 

And  still  this  faithful  friend   remained 
Riding   behind  me   as  before — 
The  friend  on   march,   in   bivouac 
When   others  were  no  more. 


402  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

How  oft  we   drove  the  horsemen   blue 
In  Summer  bright  or  Winter  frore! 

How  oft  before  the   Southern   charge 

Thro'  field   and  wood   the   blue  birds  tore  ! 
I'm  "harmonized"  to-day,  but  think 
I'd   like  to   charge   once   more. 

Oh  yes  !   we're  all  "  fraternal  "  now, 

Purged  of  our  sins,  we're  clean  and  pure; 

Congress  will  "reconstruct"  us  soon — 
But  no  grey  people  on  that  floor  ! 
I'm  harmonized — "  so   called  " — but  long 
To   see  those  times  once  more ! 

Gay  days  !  the  sun  was  brighter  then, 
And  we  were  happy,  though  so  poor  ! 

That  past  comes  back   as   I  behold 
My  shattered  friend  upon  the  floor, 
My  splintered,  useless,  ruined   mug 
From  which  I'll   drink  no  more. 

How  many  lips  I'll  love  for  aye, 
While   heart  and  memory  endure, 

Have  touched   this  broken  cup   and  laughed— 
How  they  did  laugh!   in  days  of  yore! 
Those  days  we'd  call   "  a  beauteous  dream- 
If  they  had  been  no  more  !  " 

Dear  comrades,  dead   this  many   a  day — 
I  saw  you   weltering   in  your  gore 

After   those  days,   amid  the   pines 
On   Rappahannock   shore  ! 
When  the  joy   of  life   was   much  to   me 
But  your  warm  hearts  were  more  ! 


OF    THE    WAR.  403 

Yours  was  the  grand  heroic  nerve 

That  laughs   amid  the   storm  of  war — 

Souls  that   "  loved   much "  your  native  laud, 
Who  fought  and  died   therefor  ! 
You  gave  your  youth,  your  brains,  your  arms, 
Your  blood — you   had  no   more  ! 

You  lived  and  died  true  to  your  flag  ! 

And   now  your  wounds  are  healed — but  sore 
Are   many  hearts  that  think  of  you 

Where  you  have  "gone  before." 

Peace,  comrade  !  God  bound  up  those  forms, 
They   are  "  whole  "  forevermore  ! 

Those  lips  this  broken  vessel  touched, 
His,  too  ! — the  man's  we  all  adore — 

That  cavalier  of  cavaliers, 

Whose  voice  will   ring  no   more — 
Whose  plume  will  float  amid  the   storm 
Of  battle  never  more  ! 

Not  on  this  idle  page  I  write 

That  name  of  names,  shrined  in  the  core 

Of  every  heart.     Peace  !    foolish  pen  ; 
Hush  !    words  so  cold  and  poor — 
His  sword  is  rust,  the  blue  eyes  dust, 
His  bugle  sounds  no   more  ! 

Yet  ever  here  write  this :    He  charged 

As  Rupert,  in  the  years  before ; 
And  when  his  stern,  hard  work  was  done, 

His  griefs,  joys,   battles  o'er, 

His  mighty  spirit  rode  the  storm, 
And  led  his  men  once  more ! 


404  *  o  r  TR  /•;  A>  .v  /'  o  i-:  M  s 

He  lies  beneath  his  native  sod, 

Where  violets  spring,   or  frost  is  hoar; 

He  reeks  not*!     Charging  squadrons  watch 
His  raven   pin  me  no  mere  ! 
That  smile   we'll  see,  that  voice  we'll  hear, 
That   hand   we'll  touch  no  more! 

My  foolish  mirth   is  quenched   in  tears; 
Poor  fragments  strewed  upon  the  floor, 

You  are  a  type  of  nobler  things 
That  find  their  use  no  more — 
Things  glorious  oi)ce,  now  trodden  down — 
That  makes  us  smile  no   more  ! 

Of  courage,   pride,   high  hopes,  stout  hearts, 
Hard,  stubborn  nerve,  devotion  pure  ! 

Beating  his  wings  against  the  bars, 
The  prisoned  eagle  tried  to  soar  ! 
Outmatched,  o'erwhelmed,   we  struggled  still ; 
Bread  failed  — we  fought  no  more! 

Lies  in  the  dust  the  shattered  staff" 
That  bore   aloft  on   sea  and  shore 

That  blazing  .flag,   amid  the  storm! 
And  none  are  now  so  poor— 
So  poor  to  do  it  reverence, 

Now  when  it  flames  no  more  ! 

But  it  i<  glorious  in  the  dust, 

Sacred  'till  time  shall  be  no  more. 

Spare   it,  fierce  editors,  your  scorn  ! 
The  dread  "rebellion's"  oYi  ! 
Furl  the  great  flag,   hide  cross  and  star, 
Thrust  into  darkness  star  and  bar. 
But  look  !    across  the  ages  far, 
It  flames  forcvermore  ! 


OF    THE    WAR.  4Q5 


LAST  REQUEST  OF  HENRY  C.  MAGRUDER. 

This  unfortunate  youth,  who  was  executed  ou  Friday,  October  20,  1865,  in 
his  last  moments  displayed  a  firmness  and  courage  unprecedented  in 
the  annals  of  the  world's  history,  save  by  Marshal  Ney  himself,  whom 
Napoleon  termed  the  "bravest  o^f  the  brave."  Laying  aside  the  charges 
preferred  against  him  by  the  powers  who  tried  and  condemned  him,  he 
was  more  '-"sinned  against  than  sinning;"  for,  young,  ardent  and  impetu 
ous,  he  became  an  easy  prej'  to  those  follies  and  temptations  for  which 
he  atoned  with  the  sacrifice  of  his  life.  Poor  unfortunate  child!  weak 
and  feeble,  suffering  agonies  from  a  mortal  wound  eight  long  months 
within  gloomy  prison  walls,  shut  off  from  every  hope,  yet  he  never  mur 
mured  nor  complained  to  the  very  few  friends  who  would  occasionally 
gain  access  to  his  prison  cell,  who  ever  found  him  cheerful  and  hopeful. 
In  his  last  moments  lie  addressed  himself  to  two  particular  friends,  upon 
whom  he  did  ever  rely  with  the  utmost  confidence,  and  expressed  "his 
request"  in  the  following  beautiful  lines. 

Oh  !    wrap  me  riot,  when  I  am  dead, 

In  the  ghastly  winding-sheet, 
And  bind  no  'kerchief  round  my  head, 

Nor  fetter  my  active  feet ; 
But  let  some  friend  who  loves  me  best 

Comb  out  my  long  dark  hair, 
And  part  the  ringlets  round  my  face, 

In  the  fashion  I  loved  to  wear. 

And  robe  me  in  my  favorite  garb, 

And  let  sweet  flowers  be  pressed 
Within  my  hand  and  to  my  heart/ 

When  you  lay  me  down  to  rest ; 
For  I  would  not  my  friends  should  turn 

Away  with  a  thrill  of  fear, 
As  they  give  the  last  fond  look  and  kiss 

To  one  in  life  so  dear. 

And  lay  me  down  in  a  quiet  spot, 

Beneath  some  spreading  tree, 
Where  birds  may  build  their  nests,  and  sing 


Their  sweetest  songs  o'er  me 


10* 


408  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

And  let  no  tears  be  o'er  me  shed, 
But  the  pearly  tears  of  night, 

As  the  flowers  I  love  weep  o'er  my  bed, 
In  the  pale  moon's  silver  light. 

And  let  no  chilling  marble  rest 

On   my  heart  so  warm  and  true ; 
But  the  verdant  turf  be  my  winding-sheet, 

Kept  green  by  the  summer  dew. 
Thus  let  me  sleep — and  my  glad  soul, 

On  wings  of  hope  and  love, 
Shall  haste  to  meet  my  loved  and  lost, 

In  a  world  of  bliss  above. 

LOUISVILLE,  October  20,  1S(>.~>. 


FORGET?      NEVER! 

BY    MRS.    C.   A.    BALL. 

In  answer  to  the  sentiment  which  has  been  expressed  of  late  by  many, 
"we  should  forget  the  past." 

I. 

Can  the  mother  forget  the  child  of  her  love, 

Who  was  in  her  tenderest  heart-strings  wove, 

Who  lisped  his  first  prayer  her  knee  beside, 

And  grew  to  manhood  her  joy  and  pride  ? 

Can  she  look  over  his  early  grave, 

And  forgetting  the  cause  he  died  to  save, 

Think  of  the  past  as  it  ne'er  had  been  ? 

These  years  in  her  thoughts  are  too  fresh,  I  ween. 

Forget  ?   Never ! 


OF    THE    WAR.  407 

II. 

Can  the  father  forget  his  first-born  son, 
Who,  ere  his  boyhood  was  fairly  run, 
Shouldered  his  musket  and  left  his  side, 
And  for  love  of  country  fought  and  died  ? 
Think  you  oblivion's  waves  can  roll 
Over  a  parent's  stricken  soul  ? 
Oh,  no  !    the  past,  with  its  waves  of  blood, 
Surges  his  heart  like  a  mighty  flood. 

Forget  ?   Never  ! 

in. 

Can  the  sister  forget  the  brother  beloved, 

Who  with  her  through  the  haunts  of  childhood  roved  ? 

Can  she  think  of  the  wound  on  his  manly  brow, 

Which  laid  his  proud  form  forever  low  ? 

And  can  memory  be  a  thing  of  nought, 

And  the  years  with  such  fearful  anguish  fraught, 

Be  unto  her  as  they  ne'er  had  been  ? 

Oh,  no  !    they  will  ever  be  fresh  and  green. 

Forget  ?   Never ! 

IV. 

Can  the  maiden  forget  the  noble  youth' 
Who  had  pledged  to  her  his  love  and  truth? 
Can  the  wife  forget  the  husband  tried, 
Who  for  the  love  of  his  count) y  left  her  side? 
Can  the  stricken  orphan  dry  her  tears, 
And  think  no  more  of  those  vanished  years — 
Dark  years  of  terror,  of  death  and  woe  ? 
Their  bleeding  hearts  cry  "  no  !    oh,  no  !" 

Forget  ?   Never  ! 

v. 

Can  any  true  southern  heart  forget, 
While  our  land  with  blood  and  tears  is  wet  ? 
While  the  mother's,  the  widow's,  the  orphan's  wail, 
Is  borne  to  our  ears  from  hill  and  Vale  ? 


403  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

While  our  homesteads  in  ashes  round  us  lie, 
And  for  bread  our  starving  myriads  cry  ? 
While  he,  the  head  of  our  fallen  cause, 
('Gainst  mercy's  plea,  and  honor's  laws,) 
Pines  still  within  his  prison  walls, 
And  justice  in  vain  for  his  freedom  calls  ? 

Forget  ?   Never ! 

VI. 

Time  may  bring  healing  upon  his  wings, 

May  bind  in  our  hearts  the  shattered  strings ; 

Forgiveness  of  injuries  yet  may  come, 

Though  oppression  be  felt  in  each  southern  home. 

But  ask  no  more  !     The  terrible  past 

Must  ever  be  ours,  while  life  shall  last : 

Ours,  with  its  memories— ours,  with  its  pain — 

Ours,  with  its  best  blood  shed  like  rain — 

Its  sacrifices  —  all  made  in  vain. 

Forget  ?   Never  ! 


ARLINGTON. 

BY    MARGARET   J.    PRESTON. 

You  stand  upon  the  chasm's  brink, 

That  yawns  so  deadly  deep, 
Ready  to  bridge  the  rift,  we  think, 

And  dare  the  noble  leap  ; 
So — fill  this  rent  with  purpose  bold^ 

Right  war's  red  deeds  of  shame, 
And  Curtius,  with  his  legend  old, 

Will  pale  before  your  name  J 


OF    THE    WAR.  4Q9 

We  meddle  not  with  questions  high  ; 

The  holier  office  ours, 
To  follow  where  man  leads,  and  try 

To  hide  the  flints  with  flowers. 
We  sought,  thro'  all  our  bloody  strife, 

To  succor,  soothe,  sustain  ; 
And  not  one  southern  maid  nor  wife 

Has  grudged  the  cost  or  pain. 

So,  now,  when  might  has  won  the  day, 

When  every  hope  is  crossed, 
We  cheer,  uphold,  as  best  we  may, 

The  hearts  whose  all  is  lost. 
"  Rebellious,"  "  outlawed,"  what  you  will, 

We  yet  a  boon  would  crave, 
Trusting  that  calm  forbearance  still — 

Against  such  odds  —  so  brave  ! 

For  sons,  for  husbands,  not  one  plea  ! 

(For  men,  to  whom  you  give, 
With  unupbraiding  leniency, 

Free  right,  broad  room  to  live  !) 
But  with  a  tender  woman's  claim, 

Warm  in  our  souls,  we  come, 
Armed  with  the  spell-word  of  a  name 

That  holds  denial  dumb. 

He,  in  whose  more  than  regal  chair 

You  sit,  supreme,  to-day : 
Could  he,  unmoved,  uncensuring,  bear 

That  wrong  should  wrest  away 


410  so  u THE  RX  ro  E ,u s 

What  calmed  a  dying  father's  breast,* 
As  with  rare  tear  and  moan, 

Within  his  childless  arms  he  prest 
The  babes,  thence  named  "  his  own  ?" 

His  own  ?     Yet  she,  sole  daughter  left 

Of  all  that  stately  race, 
An  exile  wanders,  sad,  bereft 

Of  certain  dwelling  place. 
Within  her  old  ancestral  halls 

The  hearths  no  beams  reflect, 
And  over  lawn  and  garden  falls 

The  mildew  of  neglect. 

The  blood  allied  to  Washington, 

Spurned  from  the  rights  he  gave ! 
Denied  the  vaunted  justice  done 

To  every  home-born  slave  ! 
Tell  not  the  brood  of  Askelon — 

Let  Gath  not  hear  afar, 
Lest  Kingdoms  sneer  it,  one  to  one — 

"  How  base  Republics  are  ?" 

"  You  do  not  war  with  women  !  "     Good  ! 

Let  such  your  boast  still  be  ; 
We  do  not  ask  a  single  rood 

Of  ground  for  Mary  Lee. 
Yet,  tho'  our  hero's  wife  be  banned 

As  touched  with  treason's  stain, 
For  Mary  Custis  we  demand 

Her  Arlington  again  ! 

*  See  Irriiiy*   mf*/<i>//o/i.— R>sith  of  Col.  Cu.-tis. 


OF    THE    WAR.  4H 

OUR    CHIEF. 

BY    THE    AUTHOR   OF    "SOUTHRONS."* 

No  !    not  forgotten,  though  the  halls 

Of  state  no  more  behold  him. 
No  !    not  forsaken,  though  the  walls 

Of  dungeon  keeps  enfold  him. 
Still  dearest  to  the  southern  heart, 

Because  her  priest  annointed, 
The  prophet  chosen  for  his  part, 

The  man  by  God  appointed. 

If  dumb,  it  is  that  tyrants  check 

The  words  that  fain  were  spoken, 
And  set  the  foot  upon  the  neck 

Of  the  people  they  have  broken : 
If  still,  it  is  that  bond  and  chain 

Each  manly  limb  encumber, 
And  men  but  murmur  in  their  pain, 

As  children  talk  in  slumber. 

We  bow  our  foreheads  to  the  dust 

In  deep  humiliation, 
Forgetting  in  our  prayerful  trust 

Our  own  dark  desolation  ; 
We  ask  for  him  who  steered  our  ship, 

Until  it  met  the  breakers, 
That  the  cup  may  pass  that  meets  his  lip, 

Through  mercy  of  his  Maker's. 

Belter  known  as  the  "Southern  Chaunt  of  Defiance." 


412  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

That  grace  divine  may  touch  the  hearts 

Of  those  who  now  oppress  him, 
And  tyrants,  tired  of  Draco's  parts, 

Lean  from  their  thrones  to  bless  him  ! 
Thus  from  the  throne  of  mighty  God, 

The  cry  of  love  has  risen, 
For  him  who  groans  beneath  the  rod, 

Proud,  prostrate,  and  in  prison. 

BEKCHMORK.  Jan.  10,  1860. 


JEFFERSON   DAY  IS. 

BY   WM.    MUNFORD. 

For  spirit  ever  quick 
With  sword  or  rhetoric, 

To  cleave  for  right,  and  dare  the  sternest  brunt ! 
For  that  when  Spanish  steel 
Bade  bristling  Texans  kneel, 
And  thy  true  heart  had  urged  them  to  the  front, 
Thy  knightly  blade  leaped  from  the  sheath, 
And  flashed  against  the  southern  sky,  a  fiery  wreath  ! 

For  honor  pure  as  ice, 
That  spurned  low  artifice, 

And  brought  no  blemish  from  the  forum's  brawls 
For  that  exalted  fame, 
That  bore  so  fair  a  name 
With  Cabinets,  and  in  the  Senate  halls  ! 
For  Bayard's  knightly  pride  that  charmed, 
For  Sydney's  courtly  grace  that  wooed  and  warmed  ! 


418 

For  that  majestic  mind, 
That  towers  above  its  kind 

Like  some  grand  peak  among  the  might}7  hills  ! 
For  that  pure  wealth  of  sonl 
That  dignifies  the  whole 
Rare  song  that  Clio's  trumpet  trills — 
A  virgin  nation  at  the  shrine, 
Looked  up  to  thec,  and  placed  her  trembling  hand  in  thine  ! 

But  while  the  bridal  strains 
Pealed  o'er  her  sunny  plains 
Like  Egypt's  freighting  royal  caravans, 
With  iron  notes  of  war 
Came  a  mighty  conqueror, 
Forbidding,  all  too  late,  those  righteous  bans.- 
The  southern  blood  leaps  to  its  shields,        . 
And  flaunts  the  virgin's  snowy  flag  along  her  fields. 

Oh,  years  of  noble  toil 
That  stronger  strength  to  foil, 
How  flowed  our  firstling  blood  of  sacrifice  ! 
Oh,  spirits  that  are  gone, 
Like  Abel  you  have  won, 
And  blood  cries  from  our  wasted  paradise! 
Her  places  know  her  now  no  more, 
Her  sp  >th  ss  ensign  droops  upon  the  other  shore. 

But  then,  our  stricken  Chief, 
As  grand  in  all  thy  grief 
As  ever  St.  Helena's  chained  king, 
Communing  with  the  skies, 
Above  thyself  dost  rise; 

And  comes  that  voice,  as  if  an  angel's  wing, 
To  whisper  from  the  prison  cave, 
And  bid  thy  people  sternly  be  still  duty's  slave. 


414  S  0  U  THER  N    POEMS 

Great  chieftain  of  our  choice, 
Albeit  that  people's  voice 
No  comfort  speaks  in  thy  lone  granite  keep ; 
Through  those  harsh  iron  bars 
There  come  back  from  the  stars 
Low  echoes  of  the  prayers  they  nightly  weep. 
Thy  children  show  their  manhood  best 
That  all  their  fears  are  circling  round  thine  honored  crest ! 

DERNIER  RESORT,  MONTGOMERY  Co.,  VA.,  Jan.  22,  18GG. 


JEFFERSON    DAVIS. 

BY   A   SOUTHERN   WOMAN. 

The  cell  is  lonely,  and  the  night 

Has  filled  it  with  a  darker  gloom  ; 
The  little  rays  of  friendly  light 

Which  through  each  chink  and  crack  found  room 
To  press  in,  with  their  noiseless  feet 
All  merciful  and  fleet, 
And  bring,  like  Noah's  trembling  dove, 
God's  silent  messages  of  love, 

These,  too,  are  gone — 

Shut  out — and  gone, 

And  that  great  heart  is  left  alone  ! 

Alone  with  darkness  and  with  woe  ! 

Around  him  Freedom's  temple  lies, 
Its  arches  crushed,  its  columns  low, 

The  night  wind  through  its  ruin  sighs. 


OF    THE    WAR.  415 

Rash,  cruel  bands  that  temple  razed, 

(Then  stood  the  world  amazed  !) 

And  now  those  hands — ah,  ruthless  deeds  ! — 

Their  captive  pierce  !     His  brave  heart  bleeds, 

And  yet  no  groan 

Is  heard  !    no  groan  ! 

He  buffers  silently,  alone  ! 

For  all  his  bright  and  happy  home, 

He  has  that  cell  so  drear  and  dark, 
Those  narrow  walls  for  heaven's  blue  dome, 

The  clank  of  chains  for  song  of  lark ; 
And  for  the  grateful  voice  of  friends — • 
That  voice  which  ever  lends 
Its  charm  where  human  hearts  are  found — 
He  hears  the  key's  dull  grating  sound. 

No  heart  is  near, 

No  kind  heart  near, 

No  sigh  of  sympathy,  no  tear  ! 

Oh,  dream  not  thus,  thou  true  and  good  ! 

Unnumbered  hearts  on   thee  await, 
By  thee  invisibly  have  stood, 

Have  crowded  through  thy  prison  gate, 
Nor  dungeon  bolts,  nor  dungeon  bars, 
Nor  floating  "stripes  and  stars," 
Nor  glittering  gun  or  bayonet, 
Can  ever  cause  us  to  forget 

Our  faith  to  thee, 

Our  love  to  thee, 

Thou  glorious  soul,  thou  strong,  thou  free ! 


416  sov  T  ii  E  n  N  ro  E  M  s 

AN  APPEAL  FOR  JEFFERSON  DAVIS. 

BY   A    LADY   OF   VIRGINIA. 

To  His  Excellency,  Andrew  Johnson,  President  of  the   United  Slates: 

Unheralded,  unknown,  I  come  to  tlico, 
Who  holdest  in  thy  hands  the  scales  of  power; 
Assured  thou  wilt  not  spurn  the  suppliant, 
Who  with  frail,  helpless  hands  and  burning  heart 
Lays  at  thine  honored  feet  her  simple  plea 
Of  "  Mercy  for  the  Captive." 

Thou  hast  known 

The  tempest-tossing  of  a  chequered  life, 
The  chill  of  adverse  .winds,  the  wintry  blight 
Of  hopes  too  fondly  cherished.     Thou  hast  seen 
How  frail  a  bubble  is  the  world's  applause, 
How  empty  its  poor  praise.     Oh,  pity  us 
On   whose  life-paths  shadows  have  darkly  fallen, 
Whose  bruised  hearts  thy  clemency  may  heal  ! 
We  plead  for  one  honored,  revered,   beloved. 
Spare  him   on   whose  brave  head  cowards  would  lay 
A  nation's  penalty  !     If  he  has  sinned, 
The   humblest  champion   of  our  fallen  cause 
Did  just  as  truly  sin  ;    if  guilty  he, 
Our  Jackson  too  was  guilty,  yet  who  seeks 
To  brand  his  glorious  name  ?     Ah  !    who  so  bold 
As,  with  the  lash   of  stern  rebuke,  to  dare 
Assail   whom  God  approveth  ?     Jackson's  soul 
Rests  with  the   Crucified;    shall  Davis  bear 
The  penance  of  his  guilt  ? 


OF    THE    WAR.  417 

Oh,  honored  Chief, 

Bo  kind,  be  just  to  him  whom  Jackson  loved, 
And  proudly  honored  with  his  high  esteem  ! 
Upon  his  head  blessing's  unspoken  rest;    ties 
Stronger  than  hooks  of  steel  circle  him  round  ; 
Prayers  from  unnumbered  hearts  go  up  for  him. 
Art  thou  a  husband  ?     For  his  safety  now 
A  wife  sits  weeping,  through  the  lonely  hours 
Of  long  absence.     Silent,   bitter  tears 
Well  from  her  burdened  heart,  while  boding  fears 
Sadden  with   anxious  thoughts  her  sleepless  pillow. 
Art  thou  a  father?     In  their  stranger  home 
Young  children  watch  for  him,   and  pause  to  hear 
The  step  that  comes  not.     Aye,  they  often   ask, 
"  Where  is  our  fat  for?   why  does  he  not  come?" 
And  grave  lips  blanch,  and  quiver  in  reply, 
And  talk  of  "prayer,"  and   "abiding  trust" 
In  the  All-Father,  God.     Oh  !    round  his  neck 
Fond  arms   would  gladly  circle ;    prattling  lips 
Would  pour  into  his  ears  their  music  tones 
Of  simple,  guileless  love  !     Say,  wouldst  thou  give 
Joy  to  these  blameless  ones  ?     Then  open  wide 
His  dreary  prison  door  ! 

/  For  this  one  act 

Heaven   would  smile  on  thee  in  that  solemn  hour 
When  life  is  pausing  at  the  Gates  of  Death, 
And  thy  sole  hope  is    Christ's  benificence. 
Aye,  for  this  single  act,  so  much,  desired, 
A  thousand  hearts  would  pour  their  prayers  for  thec 
At  God's  own  mercy-seat;    a  thousand  tongues 
Would  speak  thy  praise,  as  that  of  one  who  knew 
How,  with  the  tempted  hand  of  conscious  Power, 
To  shield  the  helpless. 


418  SOUTHERN   POEMS 

Oh,  most  honored  Chief, 
Head  of  a  mighty  nation,  lend  thine  ear 
To  this  poor,  earnest  plea  for  one  beloved  ! 
Set  the  brave  captive  free !    and  when   at  last 
Thy  soul  stands  trembling  at  that  judgment-seat 
Where  prayers  avail  not,  when  the  written  scroll 
Of  human  deeds  is  opened,  and  there  lies 
The  record  of  thy  life,  should  aught  appear 
Which  justice  would  consign  to  punishment, 
May  the  recording  angel  blot  it  out, 
And  o'er  thy  name,  in  testimony,  write, 
"  Blessed  arc  the  merciful  /" 


JEFFERSON    DAY  IS. 

BY   MOLLIE   E.    MOORE. 

"To  err  is  human  —  to  forgive  divine.*' 

Mercy  for  a  fallen  chief! 
The  angel,  Peace,  hath  stilled  the  mighty  storm  ; 

But  a  deep  and  restless  grief 
Stirs  the  mute  heart,  and  urges  the  warm 
Lips  to  plead  for  that  bowed,  defenceless  form  ! 

Upon  that  captive  head 
Must  the  strong  arm  of  vengeance  wreak  its  wrath  ? 

Alas  !    if  his  hands  are  red, 
Ours  are  not  less  so;    we  trod  the   path 
lie  trod  ;    we  followed  where  he  led  ! 


OF   THE    WAR.  419 

We  know  that  blood  hath  poured, 
We  know  that  voices  have  been  stilled,  we  know 

Among  ye  the  cold  sword 
Hath  made  sad  havoc,  that  the  golden  glow 
Hath  faded  from  many  a  warm  hearth  and  board ! 

But  have  we  not  bled 
And  suffered  too  ?     Are  not  those  dark  fields  strewn 

With  our  unmonumented  dead  ? 
Did  we  not  feel  the  dark  clouds  overhead, 
And  the  sudden  midnight  that  overtook  the  moon  ? 

And  if  ye  call  it  sin, 
The  Past  —  are  then  our  sufferings  less?     But  oh, 

As  if  had  not  been  » 

That  past  appears  while  we  with  grief  and  woe 
Plead  for  your  captive  —  he  has  ceased  to  be  your  foe  ! 

The  little  child 
Robed  for  his  couch  at  night,  lifting  his  brow 

In  supplication  mild, 

Whispers  the  honored  name ;    a  hallowed  glow 
Seems  to  enwrap  him  as  his  accents  flow  ! 

The  young  girl  trimming  her  wreath, 
Pauses  among  her  heaps  of  dewy  flowers, 

And  reverently  breathes 

A  prayer  for  that  great  heart  whose  weary  hours 
No  love  may  soothe,  for  whom  there  spring  no  flowers  ! 

The  wintry  head 
Of  the  heart-broken  sire  who  has  heard  the  knell 

Of   his  first-born  dead 

On  the  field  where  his  friend  and  brother  fell, 
Bows  while  he  names  the  captive  in  his  cell. 


42  0  S  0  U  T  H  E  R  N    P  0  E  M  S 

Behold  ! 
Bitter  with  grief  and  stung  with  gnawing  pain 

Which  never  can  grow  old  ! 
And  crossed  with  many  a  bloody  stain, 
A  nation's  throbbing  heart  upon  the  shrine  is  lain  ! 

And  by  the  brave  red  streams 
That  mingled  when  the  strife  was  hot  and  high, 

And  by  the  flashes  and  the  lurid  gleams 
That  shot  up  from  our  burning  homes,  and  by 
The  pleading  hearts  that  mount  toward  the  sky ; 

And  by  those  memories 
Common  to  us  all.  or  friend  or  foe, 

Yea,  by  the  dear,  dear  eyes, 
Hidden  forever  'neath  the  clods  that  know 
No  bond  or  barrier  'twixt   the  hearts  that  sleep  below; 

By  the  tender  hearts  that  grope 
Vainly  after  the  lost,  and  by  the  lone 

Proud  souls  that  yield  all  earthly  hope, 
By  that  sad  Past  o'er  which  all  true  hearts  moan, 
"  Mercy  "  we  plead  for  that  loved  and  honored  one  ! 

Behold ! 
Shaken  with  tears,  as  by  the  rain  a  leaf, 

Filled  with  sad  thoughts  that  never  can  grow  old, 
But  wreathed  with  sweet  (lowers  of  sympathy  and  grief, 
A  fallen  Nation's  heart  pleads  for  her  fallen  Chief! 

Houston  Tdegrapli. 


OF    THE    WAR.  421 

REGULUS.* 

BY  MARGARET  J.   PRESTON. 

Have  ye  no  mere}7  ?     Punic  rage 

Boasted  small  skill  in  torture,  when 
The  sternest  patriot  of  his  age — 

And  Romans  all  were  patriots  then — 
Was  doomed  with  his  unwinking  eyes, 
To  stand  beneath  the  fiery  skies, 
Until  the  sun-shafts  pierced   his  brain, 
And  he  grew  blind  with  poignant  pain, 

While  Carthage  jeered  and  taunted  !     Yet 
When  day's  slow-moving  orb  had  set, 
And  pitying  Nature — kind  to  all — 

In  dewy  darkness  bathed  her  hand, 
And  laid  it  on  each  lidless  ball, 

So  crazed  with  gusts  of  scorching  sand — 
They  yielded, — nor  forbade  the  grace, 

By  flashing  torches  in  his  face. 

Ye  flash  the  torches  !     Never  night 
Brings  the  blank  dark  to  that  worn  eye : 

In  pitiless,  perpetual  light, 

Our  tortured  Regnlus  must  lie! 
The  tropic  suns  seemed  tender ;   they 

Eyed  not  with  purpose  to  betray  : 

No  human  vengeance  like  a  spear 

Whetted  to  sharpness,  keen  and  clear, 

#Soo  Craven's  Prison  Life  of  JofTorson  Davis,  p.  ICG. 

20 


422  -s' <>  t "  T a v n x  P OEM s 

By  settled  hatred — pricked  its  way 
Right  thro'  the  bloodshot  iris  !     Nay, 
Ye  are  refined  tormentors  !     Glare 

A  little  longer  thro'  the  bars, 
At  the  bay'd  lion  in  his  lair — 

And  God's  dear  hand  from  out  the  stars, 
To  shame  inhuman  man,  may  cast 
Its  shadow  o'er  those  lids   at  last, 
And  end  their  aching   with  the  blest 
Signet  and  seal  of  perfect  rest ! 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BUENA  VISTA. 

I  \  S  C  R  I JJ  E  D    TO   JEFFERSON    I)  A  V  I  S. 

BY  A  MISSISSIPPI  AN. 

It  was  upon  the  battle  field, 

Where  lay  the  dead  and  dying, 
And  many  a  gallant  hero  fell, 

While  routed  friends   were   flying. 

On  rolled  the  overwhelming  tide, 

The  haughty  foes  confiding, 
"Rushed  o'er  the   dead  and   wounded  forms, 

Their  furious  chargers  riding. 

Here  lay  Kentucky's  chief  in  dust, 

Her  younger  hero   dying, 
And  there  Arkansas  pierced  to  death, 

With  many  a  horseman  lying. * 

*r<.iMiiH  }I«-K<M>  \\.MS  kilU>il,  Liontrnimi   <"',>!<, n;.l    fhiy   ..  •rlnlly 

\voii!ii!<'il  upon  the  li'.'lil.  ;ui«l  (_';'!.  Y<'11  \v;is  kilU-d  \vith  a   h;:;-.'  while  heading 
a  cavalry  chart:''. 


OF   THE    WAR.  423 

On  rolled  the  raging  tide  of  war, 

In  serried  lines  of  battle, 
The  gaudy  pennants  flaunt  in   air, 

The  shining  armors  rattle. 

On,  on  the  furious  horsemen  pour 

Like   the  resistless  river, 
The  hills  beneath  the  heavy  tread 

Of  rushing   squadrons   quiver. 

A  nation's  fate  and  honor  lie 

Poised  in  the  balance  now, 
Lo,  where  lie  stands,  his  little  band 

Upon  the   mountain's   brow. 

Must  they  before  the  avalanche 

Of  the  advancing  foe, 
Be  swept  like  chaff  before  the  wind, 

Or  on  the  field  laid  low  ? 

They  move  not,  stir  not — still  they  stand, 

Firm   as  the  mountain   rock, 
Defiant   wait  the  exulting  foe, 

And  brave  the  coming  shock. 

They  stand,  and  still  as  death — 

No  murmur  whispers  there, 
Lo  !  there  the  smoke  !  the  flash ! 

Their  volleys  rend  the  air. 

Down  horse  and  rider  roll  in  dust, 

Their  melting  ranks  give   way, 
Their  broken  columns  back  recoil, 

And  Davis  saves  the  day. 

But  still  the  hills  re-echo  back 

The  cannon's  thundering  roar, 
Where  gallant  Bragg  stills  holds  in  check, 

The  foemen  as  they  pour. 


421  *  O  U  T II E  R  N    P  O  E  M  S 

'Tis  there  beneath  the  canopy 
Of  sulphury  clouds  that  rise, 

'Mid  lurid  flames  and  reeking  gore, 
A  bloody  sacrifice. 

'Tis  there  converge  the  inveterate  foes, 

And  centre  all  their  force, 
There  "Rough  and  Ready"  gives  his  care, 


Lo,  o'er  the  field  with  hurried  stride, 

They  hasten  to  the  strife, 
Who  staked  upon   the  mountain  bro\v, 

Their  honor  and  their  life. 

Again  they  rush  where  fate  impends, 

To  give  the  welcome  aid  — 
Their  deeds  have  on  their  country's  page 

Their  names  immortal  made. 

Before  the  unerring  rifle's  flash, 

The  storm  of  shot  and  shell, 
Fierce  as  the  raging  tempest's  wrath, 

The  slaughtered  foemen  fell. 

And  then  again  in  triumph  rose 

The  loud  exulting  cry, 
As  back  recoiled  the  baffled  foe, 

The  shout  of  victory. 

And  Buena  Yista's  field  was  won  — 

A  nation's  honor  saved, 
Its  banner  all  unstained  on  high, 

In  glorious  triumph  waved. 

Louiscille  Cutu-;,,:  April,  1SGG. 


OF    THE    WAR.  495 


THE  CONFEDERATE  NOTE. 

The  following  lines  were  written  upon  the  back  of  a,  five  hundred  dollar 
Confederate  nou>,  by  Major  S.  A.  Jonas,  subsequent  to  the  surrender: 

Representing  nothing  on  God's  earth  now, 

And  naught  in  the  water  below  it ; 
As  a  pledge  of  a  nation  that's  dead  and  gone, 
Keep  it,  dear  Captain,  and  show  it. 

Show  it  to  those  that  will  lend  an  ear, 

To  the  tale  this  paper  can  tell  , 

Of  liberty  born,  of  the  patriot's  dream, 
Of  a  storm-cradled  nation  that  fell. 

Too  poor  to  possess  the  precious  ore, 

And  too  much  a  stranger  to  borrow, 
We  issue  to-day,  our  "promise  to  pay," 
And  hope  to  redeem  on  the  morrow. 

Days  rolled  by,  and  weeks  became  years, 

But  our  coffers  were  empty  still, 
Coin  was  so  rare  that  the  treasurer  quakes 
If  a  dollar  should  drop  in  the  till. 

But  the  faith  that  was  in  us  was  strong  indeed, 

And  our  poverty  well  we  discerned, 
And  these  little  checks  represented  the  pay 
That  our  suffering  veterans  earned. 

We  knew  it  had  hardly  a  value  in  gold, 

Yet  as  gold  the  soldiers  received  it, 
It  gazed  in  our  eyes  with  a  promise  to  pay, 
And  each  patriot  soldier  believed  it. 


426  SOUTHERN    PO  E  MS 

But  our  boys  thought  little  of  price  or  pay, 

Or  of  bills  that  were  over-due, 
We  knew  if  it  bought  our  bread  to-day, 
'Twas  the  best  our  country  could  do. 

Keep  it !    it  tells  all  our  history  over, 

From  the  birth  of  the  dream  to  its  last ; 
Modest,  and  born  of  the  angel,  Hope, 
Like  our  hope  of  success  it  passed  ! 


GIVE    TIT  E  M    BREAD! 

BY   O.    L.    R. 

Have  you  heard  the  calls  for  succor, 
Cries  of  hunger  that  have  come, 

From  the  land  where  want  and  sorrow, 
Shadow  every  stricken  home  ? 

From  the  land  where*  blasted  deserts 

Reign,  where  once  the  rose  has  bloomed, 

Where  ten  thousands  of  her  noblest, 
Bravest  warriors  lie  entombed  ! 

Where  the  wild  tide  of  the  battle, 

Like  a  fiery  billow  swept  — 
Where  the  flames  from  burning  homesteads, 

High  into  the  midnight  leapt. 

Where  the  streaming  blood  of  heroes, 
Sinking  'nealli  the  waves  of  fight, 

Stained  the  earth  so  deep  a  crimson, 
That  it  changed  the  hue  of  night. 


07''    THE    WAR.  427 

Have  you  heard  them  ?    then,  oh  hearken 

To  the  cries  that  swell  to  heaven  ! 
Let  a  bounteous  stream  of  mercies, 

To  that  stricken  land  be  given. 

Listen  to  the  sad  appealings, 

Listen  to  the  cry  for  bread, 
Listen  to  the  widow  -praying 

That  her  orphans  may  be  fed! 

Oh  !    by>  all  the  woe  and  suffering 

That  a  noble  people  bear  — 
By  their  anguish  and  their  misery, 

By  their  weight  of  dark  despair  ; 

By  their  bright  hopes,  dead  and  withered, 

By  the  glories  of  their  past, 
By  their  drear  and  hopeless^^ure, 

Where  no  cheering  Hghtf^Hkt ; 

By  the  ashes  of  their  warriors, 

By  eaclv  gallant  life  cut  short, 
By  the  white  bones  that  are  bleaching, 

Where  the  thousand  fights  were  fought; 

By  the  courage  of  their  matrons, 

Proudly  arming  for  the  field, 
E'en  their  youngest,  there  to  conquer 

Or  be  borne  back  on  his  shield  ! 

By  the  smiles  that  hid  the  breaking 

Heart  of  each  chivalric  maid, 
When  she  bid  her  lover  go  forth, 

Bravely  belting  on  his  blade ; 

By  the  mourning  for  the  fallen, 

By  the  mother's  heart  in  grief, 
By  the  wife's — the  maiden's  anguish, 

Deathless  pain  without  relief; 


428  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

By  the  graves  of  all  their  dearest, 
'Xeath  the  distant  battle  plain, 

Where  in  nameless  charnel  trenches, 
Sleeps  the  foeraan  with  his  slain  ; 

By  their  desolated  hearth-stones, 

By  each  ruined  fireside, 
By  the  hovels  where  in  hunger 

All  the  proudest  now  abide  ; 

By  their  courage  in  their  sorrow, 
By  their  woe  so  grandly  borne, 

By  their  majesty  —  though  conquered, 
By  their  chains  so  sternly  worn  ; 

By  the  greatness  of  the  living, 

By  the  memories  of  the  dead, 
Stretch  th^flkth  the  hand  of  helping  ! 
i^^We 


By  Godie,  oh,  give  them  bread  ! 


A  WIND  FROM  THE  SOUTH. 

(Written  for  the  Fair  Journal.) 
BY  C.   C. 

I  sing  of  the  South  ! 
Not  as  she  sat  in  her  pride  of  yore, 
Peace  encircled  from  the  gulf  to  shore, 
Golden  throned   in   lior  dreamful   ea?e, 
Lulled  by  a  wandering  trojo,-   breeze — 
Rich  in  fruitage,  and  rare  in   flowers. 
Under  the  shelving  orange  bowers. 


OF    THE    WA  K.  429 

But  in   days  that  came, 
When  hand  to  hilt  for  her  honor's  sake, 
Dearer  far  than  the  lives  at  stake, 
Sweeping  on  to  the  battle's  fore, 
She  flashed  on,  a  bright  Escalibore, 
Where  surging  hosts  made  the  deadliest  fight, 
She  dared  a  world  in  her  single*   might. 

'Twas  a  form  inspired, 
That  lion-like,  as  the  struggle  wore, 
Starved,  and  bleeding  at  every  pore, 
Weak  with  famine,  and  faint  for  blood, 
Brave  in  sinking,  as  when  she  stood, 
Hunted,  fell,  in  her  own  green  glades, 
Hacked  and  hewn  by  a  hundred  blades. 

It   is  not  for   her  ! 

This  cry  that  echoes  across  the  seas, 
Of  a  nation's  welfare,  and  peace  and  ease, 
Nor  the  haughty  banner  that  floats  unfurled, 
In  the  face  of  the  startled   Mother-world, 
This  roll  of  drums,  and  the  trumpet's   blare, 
Mock  the  silence  of  her  despair. 

She  is  bereaved. 

Her  best  and  bravest  are  scattered  far, 
Fallen  in  conflict,  and  worn  of  war, 
She  has  piled  her  sacrificial   heaps, 
Out  in  the  voiceless  ocean  deeps, 
In  the  dreary  marsh,  in  the   serpent's  lair, 
Her   dead  are   sleeping — everywhere. 

She  loved   them  so  ! 

God  knows,— for  He  has  given  His  own, 
How  closely  knitted   to   flesh   and  bone, 
The   human  ties  that  lie   shattered   here, 
Watered  by  many  a  blinding  tear. 
He  knows  and  cares — and  there's  one  star's  light, 
In   the  blackest  cloud   of  the  blackest  night. 
20* 


439  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

A  wind  from  the   South. 
It  has   swept  afar  o'er   a  lonely  plain, 
And  gathered  strength   for  its  sad   refrain, 
From  the  widow's  wail   for  her  hero  dead, — 
From  the   orphan's  sharp,  shrill   cry  for  bread,- 
From  the  exile's  sigh,  and  the  prison  moan, 
'Lost  and  gonb,'  is  the  monotone. 

It  is  not  in  vain  ! 
Ah  !  gentle  women  of  Baltimore, 
True  ye   are  to   the  warm   heart's   core — 
True  ye   are  to  the  name  ye  bore, 
When   a  suffering  sister's   lack  was  sore, 
When  ye  sent  your  striplings  at  our  need, 
With  a  cheerful  trust,  and  a  stout  God-speed. 
True   and   tender,  and   often  tried, 
It  is  not  now  that  ye  turn  aside. 
'Tis  pure  religion  and  umkTiled, 
To  feed  the  mouth  of  the  starving  child, 
To  kindle  hope  in  the  fainting  breast, 
To  guide  the  homeless  into  rest, 
And  when  a  dire  Apocalypse 
Shall  rend  the  veil  of  Heaven's  eclipse, 
This  germ  of  Christ's  own  charity, 
Shall  blossom  fair  in  the  realm  to  be. 

April  -2,  180G. 


TO  tHE  LADIES  OF  BALTIMORE. 

BY  MRS.  BETTJE  C.   LOCKE. 

For  those  so  fair,  and  kind  and  true,  who  felt  for  others' 
grief, 

We  of  the  south  would  now  entwine  fame's  bright  un 
dying  wreath  ! 

In  gratitude  we  still  are  rich;  'tis  no  mite  of  prayers  and 
tears, 

Is  daily  poured  forth  to  Him,  who  in  heaven  kindly  hears, 


OF    THE    WAR.  431 

For  blessings  on  the  hearts  and  hands  of  those  who  knew 

our  needs, 
Yet  not  in  words  their  comfort  sent,  but  in  glowing  acts 

and  deeds; 
To  renew   our  faith   in   human  love,  make  drear  homes 

bright  once  more, 
Bring   back  a   smile   to    grief-worn  cheeks,  hope  to   the 

cottage  door. 

Like  rays  of  sunshine  in  the  storm,  shine  out  these  deeds  of 

love, 
Touched  with  a  sense  of  kindliness,  e'en  grim  despair  will 

move, 
The  widow  mourning  for  her  stay,  who  fell  'mid  deeds  of 

glory, 
More  thrilling  than   heroic  deeds  e'er  penned  in  ancient 

story  ; 

The  mother,  fair  and  young  and  sad,  who  gathers  to  her  side 
Her  little  ones,  to  tell  of  him  who  bravely  fought  and  died  ; 
And  though  born  to  gentler  things,  bitter  want  is  at  the 

door, 
And  they  must  face  the  world,  with  the  rude,  unpolished 

poor. 

Maimed  manhood  sits  and  sighs  beside  the  ashes  of  his 

home, 
Where  only  stands  the  chimney-stack,  to   tell  him   all  is 

gone ; 
The  loving  wife  and  gentle  child — each  dear  tree,  shrub 

and  flower, 
The  trellis  and   the   grape-vine  that   formed   the   garden 

bower. 
No  house  dog   bounds  to   meet    his   steps,  the   birds  no 

longer  sing, 
Rank  weeds  arc  growing  in  the  path,  no  willow  shades  the 

spring ; 

Rude  soldiery  have  revelled,  and  left  their  traoos  there — 
He  turns  away,  unconquered,  n  stoic  in  despair. 


432  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

But  woman  dear,  inspired  with   love  and   pity  for  such 

grief, 
Now  bids  the  widow's  heart  rejoice  and  gives  her  sure 

relief. 

The  soldier's  orphans  and  his  wife  arc  made  to  smile  again, 
And  proud  hearts   cease  their  throbbing — such  charity's 

no   pain. 
The  homestead  now  is  reared  again  o'er  the  ashes  of  the 

past, 

And  deeds  of  love  have  conquered  the  victory  at  last. 
Southern  hearts   and  southern   homes   will    ever   own  the 

sway, 
Of  loving   acts  and   kindly  deeds,  be  the  future  what  it 

may. 

We  had  bright  dreams,  and  cherished,  but  they  have  sadly 

fled, 
And  naught  is  left  to  cheer  us,  but  our  honor  and  our 

dead, 
All   this   dreary   hopelessness,    and   hearts   that   still   are 

aching, 
But  the  earth's  green  sod  will  soon,  soon  cover  up  their 

breaking ; 

And  when  the  flowers  brightly  bloom  o'er  all  our  desola 
tion, 
Where    grew,    and    bloomed,    and    died,    thy   hopes,    0  ! 

fallen  Southern  nation, 
Fame    will    proudly    point    to    all,    that    Charity    whose 

power, 
Has  done    so    much    to    heal    our   woes    and   soothe    our 

darkest  hour. 

SlIEXAXDOAII  Y.-VLLEY,  MaiJ,  18GG. 


OF    THE    WAR.  433 


THE   BLESSED   HAND. 


RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED  TO  THE  LADIES  OF  THE  SOUTHERN  RELIEF  FAIR. 

BY    S.    T.    WALLIS. 

There  is  a  legend  of  an  English  Monk,  who  died  at  the  Monastery  of  Arem- 
berg,  where  lie  had  copied  and  illuminated  many  hooks,  hoping  to  !><• 
rewarded  in  Heaven.  Long  after  his  death  his  tomb  was  opened,  and 
nothing  could  be  seen  of  his  remains  but  the  right  hand,  with  which  he 
had  done  his  pious  work,  and  which  hud  been  miraculously  preserved 
from  decay. 

For  you  and  me,  who  love  the  light 

Of  God's  uncloistered  day, 
It  were,  indeed,  a  dreary  lot, 

To  shut  ourselves  away 
From  every  glad  and  sunny  thing 

And  pleasant  sight  and  sound, 
And  pass,  from  out  a  silent  cell, 

Into  the  silent  ground. 

Not  so  the  good  monk,  Anselm,  thought, 

For,  in  his  cloister's  shade, 
The  cheerful  faith  that  lit  his  heart 

Its  own  sweet  sunshine  made ; 
And  in  its  glow  he  prayed  and  wrote, 

From  matin-song  'till  even, 
And  trusted,  in  the  Book  of  Lift, 

To  read  his  name  in  Heaven. 

What  holy  books  his  gentle  art 

Filled  full  of  saintly  lore  ! 
What  pages,  brightened  by  his  hand, 

The  splendid  missals  bore  ! 
What  blossoms,  almost  fragrant,  twined 

Around  each  blessed  name, 
And  how  his  Saviour's  cross  and  crown 

Shone  out,  from  cloud  and  flame  ! 


434  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

But,  unto  clerk  as  unto  clown, 

One  summons  comes,  ahvay, 
And  Brother  Anselm  heard  the  call, 

At  vesper-chime,  one  day. 
His  busy  pen  was  in  his  hand, 

His  parchment  by  his  side  — 
He  bent  him  o'er  the  half-writ  prayer, 

Kissed  Jesu's  name,  and  died  ! 

They  laid  him  where  a  window's  blaze 

Flashed  o'er  the  graven  stone, 
And  seemed  to  touch  his  simple  name, 

With  pencil  like  his  own  ; 
And  there  he  slept,  and  one  by  one, 

His  brothers  died,  the  while, 
And  trooping  years  went  by,  and  trod 

His  name  from  off  the  aisle. 

And  lifting  up  the  pavement,  then, 

An  Abbot's  couch  to  spread, 
They  let  the  jewelled  sunlight  in 

Where  once  lay  Ansclm's  head. 
No  crumbling  bone  was  there,  no  trace 

Of  human  dust  that  told, 
But,  all-  alone,  a  warm  right  hand 

Lay,  fresh  upon  the  mould. 

It  was  not  stiff,  as  dead  men's  are, 

But,  with  a  tender  clasp, 
It  soemed  to  hold  an  unseen  hand 

Within  its  living  grasp, 
And  ere  the  trembling  monks  could  turn 

To  hide  their  dazzled  eyes, 
It  rose,  as  with  a  sound  of  wings, 

Right  up  iiito  the  skies  ! 

Oh,  loving,   open  hands,  that  give; 

Soft  hands,  the  tear  that  dry  ; 
Oh,   patient  hands,  that  toil  to  bless; 

How  can  ye,  ever,   die  ! 


.     OF  THE    WAR.  435 

Ten  thousand  vows,  from  yearning;  hearts, 
To   Heaven's  own  gates  shall  soar, 

And  bear  you  up,  as  Anselin's  hand 
Those  unseen  angels  bore  ! 

Kind  hands  !    oh,  never  near  to  you 

May  come  the  woes  ye  heal  ! 
Oh,  never  may  the  hearts  ye  guard 

The  griefs  ye  comfort  feel  ! 
May  He,  in  whose  .sweet  name  ye  build, 

So  crown  the  work  ye  rear, 
That  ye  may  never  clasped  be, 

In  one  unanswered  prayer! 

BALTIMORE,  April  8,  18G6. 


THE    BLESSED    HEART. 

S'jqr/estcd  by  "  The,  Blessed  Hand." 

GRATEFULLY  DEDICATED  TO  THE  LADIES   OF    THE    SOUTHERN   RELIEF    FAIR    OF    BALTIMORE, 

BY    MRS.    M.    M. 

I  sing  not  of  "  The  Blessed  Hand," 

That  has  so  well  been  sung, 
Nor  of  the  mercy-winged  feet, 

Nor  of  the  love-touched  tongue; 
Each  one  being  but  the  instrument  — 

Mechanical  —  at  best 
A  servant,  though  obedient 

Unto  the  heart's  behest. 

But  that,  tha-t  with  my  heart  of  hearts 

I  now  would  try  to  sing, 
Gives  life  to  all,  to  all  imparts 

An  energizing  spring. 
It  is  —  oh,  how  its  very  name 

The  torpid  feelings  start !  — 
To  virtuous  deeds,  and  Jioble  acts, 

It  is  — The  Blessed  Heart! 


436  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

What  else  inspired  tongue,  foot,  and  hand, 

Unto  their  work  of  love 
For  our  poor  ruined  southern  land  ! 

What  might  such  mercy  move, 
But  that  blest  influence  divine  ! 

God's  spirit  doth  impart, 
When  hand,  and  foot,  and  tongue  obey 

Thy  teachings,  Blessed  Heart. 

I  know  a  heart — a  Blessed  Heart  — 

'Twill  never,  never  die  ! 
In  numbing  death  it  hath  no  part, 

Xor  cold  mortality. 
In  cold  obstruction's  apathy, 

Though  buried  'neatli  the  sod, 
•  That  Blessed  Heart  can  never  lie, 

Whose  life  is  hid  with  God. 

That  heart  has  fired  the  faltering  tongue, 

Bestirred  the  laggard  feet, 
The  palsied  hand  has  nerved,  and  sprung 

With  vitalizing  heat  ; 
Each  impulse  for  the  right,  the  true, 

Has  energized.     Such  part, 
Ensures  thee  immortality, 

Thou  ever  Blessed  Heart ! 

The  Blessed  Heart  whose  life  is  love  — 

Not  legendary  lore, 
But  Christian  faith  instrncteth  us, 

Shall  live  forevermore  — 
Live,  when  the  gross  material  all 

Hath  vanished  as  a  dream, 
Live,  when  time's  flowers  have  floated  down 

Oblivion's  silent  stream. 

Oh,  living,  loving  hearts  that  move 
The  hands  to  deeds  sublime, 

Whose  boundless  charity  and  love 
Are  bounded  by  no  clime  ! 


0  F    THE    WAR.  437 

Oh,  may  the  blessings  you  have  shower'd 

On  this  dear  land  of  ours, 
Reflexly  on  yourselves  return 
In  rich  and  copious  showers  ! 

Oh,  may  those  hearts,  those  noble  hearts 

That  liberal  things  devise, 
That  in  sweet  mercy's  works  abound, 

And  find  blest  exercise 
In  deeds  of  piety  and  love, 

Be  bless'd  as  they  have  blcss'd, 
And  find,  in  Heaven's  approving  smile, 

Their  sure  reward  and  best ! 

Oh,  may  their  prayers  and  tears  for  us, 

Their  gifts  on  us  bestow'd, 
As  their  memorial,  go  up 

Before  the  throne  of  God  ! 
Oh,  may  we  meet  before  that  throne, 

Meet,  never  more  to  part, 
The.  ones  that  here  on  earth  have  shown 

Thy  fruits,  oh,  Blessed  Heart  1 

COLUMBIA,  S.  0. 


TO  MISS  ,  OF  VA. 

BY  "STELLA." 

Hail  gentle  patron  of  our  stricken  land  ! 

Thrice  welcome  to  'our  ever  grateful  shore; 
When  God  hath  chastened,  should  not  woman's  hand 

Leap  kindly  forth,  the  healing  balm  to  pour  ? 
"Yengeance  is  mine,"  proclaims  the  Thunderer's  voice — 
"  But  thine  to  bid  the  smitten  one  rejoice, 
To  cool  the  brow,  the  fevered  wound  to  dress, 
To  wipe  the  tear  from  sorrow's  eye,  and  soothe  the  heart's 
distress." 


438  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

When  late,  Wars'  trump  had  called  to  civil  strife, 
And  our  sunny  land,  with  hate  and  rancor  rife, 

Had  drunk  the  blood  by  hostile  brother  shed ; 

Wrhen  the  proud  victor,  with  triumphant  tread 

Had  trampled  o'er  the  vanquished's  gory  bed, 
When  the  gushing  tide  of  ebbing  life, 

Had  from  the  unconscious  martyr  fled, 
Thy  form  was  seen,  amid  the  battle's  din, 
Like  angel  visiting  our  fallen  world  of  sin. 

Resume  thy  mission,  gentle  one;    thy  task- 
Is  but  begun  —  our  sons  no  more  may  ask 
The  guerdon  of  thy  life-restoring  hand  — 
The  daughters  of  our  suffering  southern  land 
Demand  thine  aid.     When  th'  exhausted  flask 
Of  material  good  is  emptied  to  the  dregs, 

And  the  stern  spikes  and  clamps   secure  tlfe  gold 
By  which  the  stores  of  mental  wealth  are  sold,  ' 
Who  shall  unlock  the  mind's  rich  ore,  for  which  the  nation 
begs? 

Virginia  asks  thine  aid.      Her  desolated  homes, 
Her  prostrate  altars,  and  her  ruined  domes, 
All  bid  thee  aid  to  spread  fair  science'  light, 
And  roll  aloof  the  clouds  of  gothic  night. 
And  Carolina  begs,  her  mental  soil 
Dark  ignorance  may  not  her  heritage  despoil. 

Mioja's  cavern  echoes  Georgia's  strain, 
While  mountain  gorge,  and  copse,  and  glen, 

In  wild  mirsule,  respond  the  notes  again, 
And  over  all,  the  adamantine  hills  roll  back  the  loud  Amen  ! 

Hark  !    from  the  orange-groves,  o'er  the  coral  strand, 

Mingled  with  perfume  and  wild  melody, 
A  voice  comes  bounding  from  the  flowery  land  — 

Fair  Florida  prefers  her  prayer  to  thee, 
In  tones  as  soft  as  streamlets'  murmuring  wave, 
Or  syren's  minstrelsy  in  ocean's  cave. 
Now  Alabama  adds  her  welcome  here, 
Adorned  with  all  the  glow  of  gratitude's  bright  tear. 


OF    THE    WAR.  439 

Lo  !    Mississippi  droops  her  suppliant  head, 
And  from  Magnolia's  chalice,  pledges  thee 
Her  golden  coffers,  so  thou  set  her  Davis  free. 

Vain  offering !     Rather  say,  her  heart's  best  incense  shed 

Is  poor  return  for  one  so  rich  a  boon. 

Oh,  kind  one  !    help  to  free  the  captive  soon, 

Ere  the  lurid  light  of  the  prison's  gloom 

Be  changed  for  the  night  of  the  silent  tomb  ! 

Al.AI5A.MA,    AlKJUst    1,    1SGO. 


THE   WASTE    OF   WAR. 

Give  me  the  gold  that  war  had  cost, 

Before  this  peace-expanding  day, 
The  wasted  skill,  the  labor  lost, 

The  mental  treasure  thrown  away, 
And  I  will  buy  each  rood  of  soil 

In  every  yet  discovered  land, 
Where  hunters  roam,  where  peasants  toil, 

Where  many  peopled  cities  stand. 

I'll  clothe  each  shivering  wretch  on  earth, 

In  needful,   aye,  in  brave  attire  — 
Vesture  befitting  banquet  mirth, 

Which  kings  might  envy  and  admire. 
In  every  vale,  on  every  plain, 

A  school  shall  glad  the  gazer's  sight, 
Where  every  poor  man's  child  may  gain 

Pure  knowledge,  free  as  air  and  light. 

I'll  build  asylums  for  the  poor, 
By  age  or  ailment  made  forlorn  ; 

And  none   shall  thrust  them  from  the  door, 
Or  sting  with  looks  or  words  of  scorn. 


44.0  SOUTHER  N    P  0  E  M  ,S' 

I'll  link  each  alien  hemisphere, 

Help  honest  men  to  conquer  wrong, 

Art,  science,  labor,  nerve  and  cheer, 
Howard  the  poet  for  his  song. 

In  every  free  and  peopled  clime, 

A   vast  Walhalla-hall  shall  stand  : 
A  marble  edifice  sublime, 

For  the  illustrious  of  the  land  — 
A  Pantheon  for  the  truly  great, 

The  wise,  benificent  and  just  — 
A  place  of  wide  and  lofty  state, 

To  honor  and  to  hold  their  dust. 


OUR  DEAD. 

BY  COL.  A.  M.  HOBBY. 

"  My  house  shall  be  called  of  all  nations,  the  house  of  prayer;  but  yc  have 
made  it  a  den  of  thieves." 

"  Beware  of  false  prophets  which  come  to  you  in  sheep's  clothing;  but  in 
wardly,  they  arc  ravening  \volvc-." 

"It  was  the  worst  work  that  Satan  and  sin  undertook  in  this  world  ;  and 
they  that  suffered  in  it,  were  not  martyrs  in  a  uv>ud  cause  but  convicts  in  u 
bad"  one.  '\Vhushall  comfort  them  tliat  sit  by  dishonored  graves?"' — Ser 
mon  of  Henry  Ward  Bccck<  r. 

Yile,  brutal  man  !  and  darest  thon 

In  God's  annotated  place  to  preach — 
With  impious  tongue  and  brazen  brow — 

The  lessons  Hell  would  blush  to  teach  ? 
The  cruel  taunt  thy  lips  have  hissed, 

Beneath  Religion's  holy  screen, 
Is  false — as  false  Iscariot's  kiss, 

Is  false — as  thou  art  vile  and  mean. 

Are  these  the  lessons  which  He  taught? 

And  was  his  mission  here  in  vain?" 
Peace  and  good  will  seem  words   of  naught — 

Hell  rules  the  earth  with  hate  again  ! 


OF    THE    WAR.  441 

And  thon  !  its  chosen  instrument, 

Hyena-like,  with  heartless  trend, 
Hast  dared  invade,  with  blood-hound  scent, 

The  sacred  precincts  of  the  dead. 

Not  such  from  those,   dear  brave  old  South, 

Who  met  thec  in  thine  hour  of  might ! 
But  from   the  coarse,  polluted  mouth 

Of  coward  cur  who  feared  to  fight. 
Dear  loved  old  South  !     Contemn  the  curse 

That  those  who   hate  shall   heap   on  you ; 
You've  wept  behind  War's  bloody  hearse, 

That  bore   away  your  brave  and  true  ! 

Their  precious  blood,  though  vainly  shed  ! 

Long  as  thy  shore  old  Ocean  laves, 
We'll  bow  with  reverence  o'er  our  dead, 

And  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  graves. 
From  Mexico  to  Maryland, 

Those  graves  are  strewn  like  autumn  leaves — 
What  though  no  mother's  tender  hand 

Upon  their  tomb  a  chaplet  weaves ; 

Nor  wives,  nor  sisters  bend  above 

The  Honored  Soldier's  unmarked  mound — 
They  are  objects  of  eternal  love 

In  consecrated  Southern  ground. 
It  recks  not  where  their  bodies  lie — 

By  bloody  hill-side,  plain  or  river — 
Their  names  arc  bright  on   Fame's  proud  sky, 

Their  deeds  of  valor  live  forever. 

The  song-birds  of  the  South  shall  sing 

From  forests  grand,  and  flowery  stem, 
And  gentlest  waters  murmuring, 

Unite  to  hymn  their  requiem. 
And  Spring  will  deck  their  hallowed  bed 

With  types  of  resurrection's  day  ; 
And  silent  tears  the  Night  hath  shed, 

The  Morning's  beam  will  kiss  away. 


4-42  $  o  u  T  n  E  R  N  r  o  i:  .1  /  s 

Those  heroes  rest  in  solemn  fame 

On  every  field  where  Freedom  bled ; 
And  shall  we  let  the  touch  of  shame 

Fall  like  a  blight  upon  our  dead  ? 
No  !  wretch  !  we  scorn  thy  hatred  now, 

And  hiss  thy  shame  from  pole  to  pole ; 
The  brutes  are  better  far  than  thou, 

A  beast  might  blush  to  own  thy  soul. 

"Dishonored  graves?"  take  back  the  lie 

That's  breathed  by  more  than  human  hate, 
Lest,  Ananias  like,  you  die, 

Not  less  deserving  of  his  fate. 
Our  Spartan  women  bow  in  dust, 

Around  their  country's  broken  shrine, 
True — as  their  souls  are  noble — just, 

Pure — as  their  deeds  have  been  divine  ; 

Their  Angel  hands  the  wounded  cheered — 

Did  all  that  woman  ever  dares — 
When  wealth  and  homes  had  disappeared, 

They  gave  us  tears,  and  smiles,  and  prayers. 
They  proudly  gave  their  jewels  up — 

For  all  they  loved — as  worthless  toys ; 
Drank  to  the  dregs  Want's  bitter  cup 

To  feed  our  sick  and  starving  boys. 

Their  glorious  flag  on  high  no  more 

Is  borne  by  that  unconquered  band  ; 
'Tis  furled  upon  the  "silent  shore" — 

Its  heroes  around  it  stand. 
No  more  beneath  its  folds  shall  meet 

The  armies  of  immortal  LEE  ; 
The  rolling  of  their  drums  last  beat 

Is  echoing  in  eternity ! 

Newt  TV-ms,  J«.>.,  i 


OF    THE    WAR.  443 

THE  CONFEDERATE  DEAD. 

BY  LATJENNE. 

From  the  broad  and  cairn  Potomac, 

To  the  Rio  Grande's  waves, 
Have  the  brave  and  noble  fallen — 

And  the  earth  is  strewn  with  graves, 
In  the  vale  and  on  the  hill"  side, 

Through  the  wood  and  by  the  stream, 
Has  the  martial  pageant  faded, 

Like  the  vision  of  a  dream. 

Where  the  reveille  resounded, 

And  the  stirring  call  "to  arms," 
Nod  the  downy  heads  of  clover 

To  the  wind's  mesmeric  charms; 
Where  the  heels  of  trampling  squadrons 

Beat  to  dust  the  mountain  pass, 
Hang  the  dew-drops  fragile  crystals 

From  the  slender  stems  of  grass. 

Where  the  shocks  of  meeting  armies 

Roused  the  air  in  raging  waves, 
And  with  sad  and  hollow  groanings, 

Echoed  earth's  deep -hidden  caves; 
Where  the  cries  of  crushed  and  dying 

Pierced  the  elemental  strife, 
Where  lay  Death  in  sick'ning  horror 

'Neath  the  maddened  rush  of  life  ; 

Quiet  now  reigns,  sweet  and  pensive, 

All  is  hushed  in  dreamless  rest, 
And  the  pitying  arms  of  Nature 

Holds  our  heroes  on  her  breast ; 


44:4:  SOU  T  H  E  R  N    PC)  E  M  S 

Shield  them  well,  oh  tender  mother, 
While  the  winds  in  tender  breath 

Whisper  us,  the  sad  survivors, 
Of  their  victory  in  death. 

What  though  no  stately  column, 

Their  cherished  names  may  raise, 
To  dim  the  eye  and  move  the  lip 

With  gratitude  and  praise. 
The  blue  sky,  hung  with  bannered  clouds, 

Their  solemn  dome  shall  be, 
All  Heaven's  choiring   winds  shall  chant 

The  anthem  of  the  free. 

The  Spring  with  vine-clad  arms  shall  clasp, 

Their  hiilocked  resting  places, 
And  summer  roses  droop  above 

With  flashed  and  dewy  faces ; 
Fair  daises,  rayed  and  crowned,  shall  spring 

Like  stars  from  out  their  dust, 
And  look  to  kindred  stars  on  high 

With  eyes  of  patient  trust. 

And  vainly  shall  the  witling's  lips 

Assail  with   envious  dart 
The  fame  of  our  heroic  dead, 

Whose  stronghold  is  the  heart — 
The  nation's  heart — not  wholly  crushed, 

Though  each  throb  be  in  pain  ; 
For  Life  and  Hope  will  still  survive, 

Where  Love  and  Faith  remain. 

EITAULA,  AI.A.,  June.  From  t/ic  Macon  Journal. 


OF    THE    WAR.  445 

SONG. 

AIR — "Faintly  fio\v  thy  falling  river." 

Here  we  bring  a  fragrant  tribute, 

To  the  bed  where  valor  sleeps, 
Though  they  missed  the  victor's  triumph, 

O'er  their  tomb  a  nation  weeps. 
Honor  through  all  time  be  rendered, 

To  their  proud,  heroic  names, 
Fondly  be  their  mem'ry  cherished, 

Bright  their  never  dying  fame. 

Glowing  in  young  manhood's  beauty, 

Sprang  they  at  their  country's  call, 
Made  before  the  foeman's  legions, 

'Round   our  homes  a  living  wall. 
By  disease's  foul  breath  withered, 

Ere  had  dawned  the  battle  day, 
On  the  fever  couch  of  anguish, 

Thousands  passed  from  earth  away. 

Thousands,  after  deeds  whose  daring 

With  their  glory  filled  the  land, 
Fell  before  the   flying  foeman, 

On  the  fields  won  by  their   hand. 
Mourning  o'er  the  fruitless  struggle, 

Bowed  beneath  the  hand  of  God, 
Gome  we  weeping  and  yet  proudly, 

Noir  to  deck  Iliis  sacred  nod. 
21 


446  SOUTHERN    POEMS 


LINES 


Read  at  the  Celebration  of  the  Memorial  Association  of  Richmond,  at  Holly 
wood  Cemetery,  May  10th,  I860. 


No  nobler  cause  than  this  of  thine, 

May  woman's  heart  engage, 
She  needs  no  prouder  place  to  win 

On  Fame's  immortal  page : 
Go  seek  them  in  their  graves  unknown, 

And  by  the  genial  powers, 
Bid  on  each  spot  in  beauty  spring 

A  sisterhood  of  flowers. 

No  marble  slab,  or  graven  stone, 

Their  gallant  deeds  to  tell ; 
No  monument  to   mark  the  spot 

Where  they  with  glory  fell  : 
Their  names  shall  yet  a  herald  find 

In  every  tongue  of  fame, 
When  valley,  stream,   and  minstrel  voice, 

Shall  ring  with  their  acclaim. 

Plant  flowers  above  their  lonely  graves, 

The  ivy  let  entwine 
Its  tendrils  there,  and  there   be  set 

The  myrtle  and  the  vine ; 
Memorials  of  your  love  shall  mark 

Each   consecrated   place, 
And  angels  wandering  down  from  Heaven, 

Will  love  the  spot  to  trace. 


OF    THE    WAR.  447 

All  o'er  the  land  like   autumn  leaves, 

Borne   on  the  wailing  blast, 
They  lie   with   no   mementoes  raised, 

To  link  them  with   the   past. 
Then  bid  the  sculptured  stone  renew 

The  story  of  their  fame — 
Some   monument  to  after-time, 

Their  glory  to  proclaim. 

Bring  flowers  to  deck  each  patriot  grave, 

And    bless  the   vernal  sod, 
Where  sleep  those  fallen  ones,  whose  deeds 

Are  written  with  their  God ; 
Place  the  white  stone  above  each  head — 

The  sacred   spot  enclose — 
That  no   invading  step   may  break 

The   calm   of  their  repose. 


LINES. 

These  lines,  dedicated  by  Florence.  Anderson  to  the  memory  of  the  Con 
federate  dead  in  Bourbon  county,  Ky.,  wore  read  upon  the  occasion  of 
a  floral  tribute  paid  by  the  ladies  of  the  county.  Two  crosses  were 
placed  on  each  grave,  one  of  fading  flowers,  the  other  of  evergreen. 

They  fell  on  the  march,  while  Hope  was  bright, 
Before  the   clouds  of  Disaster's  Night 

Had  shut  out   each  lingering  star, 
They  heard  the  p;eans  of  Victory  sound, 
As  they  passed  through  the   "dark  and  bloody  ground," 

In  all  the  power  of  war. 


44:8  S  0  UTIT  E  R  N    PO  E  M  S 

Fair  ladies  smiled,  and  with  delicate  hands 
Greeted  the  march  of  their  gallant  hands, 

Fresh  from  the  bloody  light  ! 
As  the  music  from  red  lips  rang  cheerily  out, 
The  soldiers  answered  with  song  and  shout, 

In  token  of   their  delight. 

Onward  they  moved  in  a  living  stream, 

(We  recall  it  now  as  a  strange,   wild  dream,) 

That  brave  and  toil-worn  throng ; 
We  see  the  flutter  of  banners  old. 
Whose  tales  of  glory  will  yet  be  told 

In  poet's  proudest  song. 

Riddled  with  bullets,  these  flags  wave  high  — 
Radiant  with  names  that  will  never  die, 

While  men  are  alive  to  fame  ! 
At  Belmont  and  Shiloh,  on  Richmond's  field, 
Where  five-times  his  numbers  to  Cleburne  yield, 

Had  they  won  a  deathless  name  ! 

Not  long  our  hearts  to  their  music  beat ; 
Not  long  each  road  and  thronged  street 

Echoed  beneath  their  tread  ; 
Then  glad,   bright  eyes  with  sorrow  wept, 
As  the  gallant  army  backward  swept, 

Leaving  its  honored  dead. 

Calmly  through  storms  of  the  past  four  years  — 
Through  all  the  anguish  of   blood  and  tears  — 

These  have  slept  in  each  lowly  tomb  ; 
The  War  is  o'er,  and  the  Cause  not  won, 
For  which  such  glorious  deeds  were  done, 

And  sad  is  our  people's  doom  ! 


OF    THE    WAR.  449 

But  the  legacy  left  we  will  not  forget, 
Though  the  day  is  o'er,   and  our  sun  has  set, 

And  the  people  are  not  free  — 
To  gather  the  dust  of  the  martyr-dead, 
Lying  uncared  for  in  lowliest  bed, 

And  under  the  way-side  tree. 

With  reverent  hands,  from  our  summer  bowers 
We'll  cull  fresh  wreaths  of  our  brightest  flowers, 

To  grace  each  humble  grave  : 
They  came  from  the  fair  South's  sunny  lands, 
With  true,  brave  hearts,  and  with  ready  hands, 

Our  heritage  to  save  ! 

Plant  the  two  crosses  o'er  each  still  breast 
Of  those  who  have  entered  the  soldier's  rest  — 

Who  died  for  their  native  land  ! 
One,  fading  emblem  of  our  greatest  loss, 
A  withered  hope,  like  the  Southern  Cross, 

Fallen  from  the  hero's  hand  1 

The  other  of  EVERGREEN,  emblem  of  Fame, 
Which  will  wreathe  a  halo  about  each  name, 

As  radiant  as  Glory's  sun  ! 
These  "ashes  of  glory"— this  sacred  dust  — 
Shall  be  to  Kentucky  a  holy  trust, 

'Tis  brave  work  they  have  done  ! 

Rest  then,  in  peace,  beneath  these  green  leaves, 
Lulled  by  the  sigh  of  the  wind  as  it  grieves, 

And  shakes  the  magnolia's  bloom  ! 
Rest,  though  far  from  your  loved  southern  land, 
Your  own   blossoms,  nursed    by  a  fair    stranger's    hand, 

Shall  fall  o'er  each  honored  tomb  ! 
21* 


450  S  °  V  TIT  ERN   PO  E  M  S 


OUR   CHERISHED    DEAD. 

What  tho>  no  stately  column, 

Their  cherished  names  may  raise, 
To  dim  the  eye,  and  move  the  lip, 

With  gratitude  and  praise  ! 
The  blue  sky,  hung  with  bannered  clouds, 

Their  solemn  domes  shall  be, 
All   Heaven's  choiring  winds  shall  chant 

The  anthem  of  the  free. 

The  Spring  with  vine-clad  arms  shall  clasp 

Their  humble  resting  places, 
And  Summer  roses  droop  above, 

With  flushed  and  dewy  faces. 
For  daisies  rayed   and  crowned  shall  spring, 

Like  stars  from  out  their  dust, 
And  look  to  kindred  stars  on  high, 

With  eyes  of  patient  trust. 

And  vainly  shall  the  witling's  lips, 

Assail  with  envious  dart 
The  fame  of  our  heroic  dead, 

Whose  stronghold  is  the  heart ; 
The  Nation's  ffbart  —  not  crushed, 

Tho'  each  throb   be  in   pain, 
For  Life  and  Hope  must  still  survive, 

Where  Love  and  Faith  remain. 


OF    THE    WAR.  451 


APRIL    2  6 TIL 

In  the  ceremonies  at  Memphis,  Tenn.,  iidth  April,  "  In  Memory  of  the  Con 
federate  Dead,"  Dr.  Ford  (one  of  the  Speakers,)  improvised  the  following 

appropriate  line-'. 

Iii   rank   and   file,  in   sad  array, 

As  tho'  their  watch   still   keeping, 
Or  waiting  for  the  battle  fray, 

The   dead   around   are  sleeping. 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  rests  each  rank 

As   at  their  posts  still  standing, 
Subdued,  yet  steadfast,  as  they  sank 

To  sleep   at  death's  commanding. 
No   battle  banner  o'er  them   waves, 

No  battle  trump   is  sounded, 
They've  reached  the  citadel  of  graves, 

And  7? ere  their  arms  are  grounded  ! 
***** 

Their  hallowed  memory  ne'er  shall  die, 

Bnt  ever  fresh  and  vernal, 
Shall  wake  from  flowers  the  soft  sad  sigh, 

Regrets — regrets  eternal ! 


HOME  —  AFTER   THE   WAR, 

BY   M.    E.    II. 

In  the  grassy  lane,  as  the  sun  went  down, 
He  slackened  his  fevered  and  weary  feet, 

Behind,  lay  the  ruined  and  battered  town, 
Before  him  the  country,  deserted  yet  sweet ! 

Before  him  too,  loomed  the  sunset  sky, 

Where  the  lurid   clouds  blazed  brilliantly. 


452  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

There  were  woodlands,  green  uplands,  and  rolling  hills, 
Fairy-like  stretches  of  land  and  mist, 

Labyrinths  of  thickets,   and  silent  rills, 

That  threaded  the  meadows  like  amethyst ; 

A  valley  barren  of  aught  but  trees, 

Whose  pennons  of  branches  swung  wild  in  the  breeze. 

Like  one  a-dreaming,  with  face  downcast, 
He  stood,  unheeding  the  fading  day, 

'Till  darkness  surrounding,  awoke  him  at  last, 
When,  clutching  his  musket,  he  strode  away, 

First  right,  then  left,  'till  he  crossed  the  wood, 

Close  girding  the  valley's  solitude. 

No  chirp  of  cricket,  no  twitter  of  birds, 

Woke  here  the  dread  quiet  that  gathered  around, 

No  laughter,  no   welcome  to  home-driven  herds, 
No  home's  happy  mirth  in  the  silence  profound  — 

Only  his  step  crushed  the  withered  grass, 

Only  Jiis  voice  moaned  a  hapless  "  Alas  !  " 

As  his  glance  searched  wildly  that  old,  old  scene, 
His  sorrowful  face  blanched  a  paler  hue, 

No  trace  where  loved  household  fires  had  been, 
No  vestige  of  Home  in  that  dusky  view ; 

Only  charred  timbers,  and  ridges  of  stone, 

And  chimneys  dismantled  and  overthrown. 

Rank  grasses  waved  in  the  roofless  space, 
And  dark  moss  crested  each  fallen  wall, 

And  he  turned  away  with  a  rigid  face, 
For  desolation  enshrouded  all; 

Such  ruin  lie  little  had  thought  to  see, 

And  his  heart  surged  o'er  with  its  misery. 


OF    THE    ]VAR.  453 

"  I  fain  would  linger,"  he  gloomily  said, 
"  But  home  is  no  longer  home  for  me  ; 

Here  bats  go  circling  about  my  head, 

And  the  owl  is   monarch  of  all   he  can   see. 

No   wife's  ear  to  heed   my  returning  feet, 

No  children  to  sate  me  with  kisses  sweet. 

"  If  I  could,  I  would  blot  from  rny  heart  those  years 
That  have  flown  since  last  on  this  spot  I  stood  : 

Those  terrible  years  of  anguish-wrung  tears, 
And   battle-fields  streaming  with  human  blood, 

Where  I  and  legions  have  recklessly  fought, 

For  the  country  our  forefathers'  lives  had  bought. 

"Armed  numbers  have  conquered,  while  I  have  lost 
Ev'ry  dear  heart-blossom  that  brightened  life, 

And   all  that  is  left  me  is  memory,  crost 
.With  broken  visions  of  home  and  strife. 

Home?     No  more  home  for  the  soldier's  head, 

Save  the  final  one  sheltering  his  slumbering  dead  !  " 

BALTIMORE. 


THE  VANQUISHED  PATRIOT'S  PRAYER. 

Ruler  of  nations  !    bow  thy  ear — 

I   cannot  understand 
Thy  ways, — but  Thou  wilt  heed  this  prayer 

For  my  beloved   Land. 


454  SOUTHERN    POEMS 

Dear  for  young  joys  and  earnest  toil, 
Through   many  a  stirring  year; 

My  kindred's  blood  has   dyed  her  soil, 
And  made  her  trebly  dear. 

Teach  me  to  sorrow  with  my  land, 

Yet  not  to  hate  her  foe, 
To  bow  submissive  to  thy  hand, 

Which  dealt  the  chastening  blow. 

Withholden  by  thy  sovereign  will, 
What  pain  I  would  implore, 

Give  us  some  blessing  richer  still, 
From  out  Thy  boundless  store. 

Though  now  denied  our  blood-bought  right, 

Yet  grant  us,  Lord,  to  be 
In   Thine,   and  every  nation's  sight, 

Worthy  of  Liberty  ! 

Pilgrims  and  strangers  in  the  world — 

No  land  to  call  our  home, 
Our  banner  from  its  station  hurled — 

Our  freedom  from  its  throne ; 

Let  us  not  seek  in  scenes  of  mirth 
For  surcease  from  our  grief, 

Help  us  to  turn  to   Heaven  from  Earth — 
Find  only  there  relief. 

To  suffer  with  a  suffeung  race — 

Their  bitter  cup   to  share — 
Look  on  that  cross  with  patient  face, 

Which  vanquished   patriots  bear. 


OF    THE    WAR.  455 

May  Heaven  draw  us  more  and  more, 

Earth   less   entrancing   be — 
Until  we  reach  the  shining  shore, 

And  once  again   be  free. 

Dear  fettered  land  !   this  heart  is  given 


'Till  death— to  thine  and  thee ; 


When  I  forget  thy  wrongs — may  Heaven 
Cease  to  remember  me  ! 

Amen  I  Amen  ! 


HEAVEN. 

Beyond  these  chilling  winds  and  gloomy  skies, 

Beyond  death's  cloudy  portal, 
There  is  a  land  where  beauty  never  dies, 

And  love  becomes  immortal. 

A  land  whose  light  is  never  dimmed  by  shade, 

Whose  fields  are  ever  vernal, 
Where  nothing  beautiful  can  ever  fade, 

But  blooms  for  aye  —  eternal. 

We  may  not  know  how  sweet  its  balmy  air, 

How  bright  and  fair  its  flowers  ; 
We  may  not  hear  the  songs  that  echo  there, 

Through  those  enchanted  bowers. 

The  city's  shining  towers  we  may  not  see, 

With  our  dim  earthly  vision, 
For  death,  the  silent  warder,  keeps  the  key, 

That  opes  those  gates  Elysian. 


456      SOUTHERN    PO  EMS   OF   THE    WAR. 

But  sometimes,  when  adown  the  western  sky, 

The  fiery  sunset  lingers, 
Its  golden  gates  swing  inward,  noiselessly, 

Unlocked  by  unseen  fingers. 

And  while  they  stand  a  moment  half  ajar, 

Gleams  from  the  inner  glory 
Stream  brightly  through  the  azure  vault  afar, 

And  half  reveal  the  story. 

Oh,  land  unknown  !     Oh,  land  of  the  divine  ! 

Father,  All-Wise,  Eternal, 
Guide,  guide  these  wandering,  wayworn  feet  of  mine 

Into  those  pastures  vernal ! 


A  Book  for  Every  Southern  Fireside! 

jg®"  All  Purchasers  aid  in  Educating  the  Daughters  of  the  South.  •=©& 

Now   ready,  in  a  neat  and  attractive  volume  of  456  pages,  12o.,  price  in 

cloth,  $1.50/  thick  paper,  crape  cloih.  gilt  back  and  sides,  $2.00  /  sup. 

cal.  paper,  English  crape  cloth  beveled,  gilt  aides  and  edges,  $3.00. 

T  H:  E 

Southern  Poems  of  the  War, 

COLLECTED  AND  ARRANGED  BY 

Miss   EMILY   V.  MASON. 

These  Poems,  the  offspring  of  Southern  Hearts,  snng  by  Southern  Fire 
sides,  and  Southern  Camp-fires,  are  Affectionately  Inscribed 

TO    THE   SOUTHERN  SOLDIERS, 

hy  one  who  Admired  their  Heroism,  Sympathized  with  their  Successes, 
Mourned  their  Sufferings,  and  Shared  their  Privations. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  war  I  conceived  the  design  of  collecting  and  preserving 
the  various  War  Poems,  which  (born  of  the  excited  state  of  the  public  mind,)  then 
inundated  our  newspapers.  For  a  time,  I  carried  out  this  intention,  but  a  very 
busy  life  soon  obliged  me  to  relinquish  it ;  so  that  I  am  indebted  to  the  kindness 
of  friends  for  most  of  the  later  Poems  in  this  collection. 

Travelling  since  the  war  through  many  portions  of  the  South,  I  have  heard 
everywhere  the  wish  expressed,  that  these  Poems  should  be  collected  and  pub- 
[ished  in  a  form  so  cheap  as  to  be  accessible  to  all.  This  desire  I  have  endeavored 
to  fulfil. 

Besides  a  "Memorial"  volume  to  preserve  these  "songs,"  expressive  of  the 
hopes  and  triumphs  and  sorrows  of  a  "lost  cause,"  I  have  another  design  —  TO 

AID  BY  ITS  SALE  THE  EDUCATION  OF  THE  DAUGHTERS  OP  OUR  DESOLATE  LAND;  TO  FIT  A  CER 
TAIN  NUMBER  FOR  TEACHERS,  that  they  may  take  to  their  homes  and  spread  amongst 
the  different  Southern  States  the  knowledge  of  those  accomplishments  which 
else  may  be  denied  them. 

I  appeal  to  all  good  people  to  aid  me  in  this  effort  to  provide  for  the  women  of 
the  South,  (the  future  mothers  of  the  country,)  the  timely  boon  of  education. 
Many  of  these  children  are  the  orphans  of  soldiers,  from  whom  they  have 
inherited  nothing  but  an  honorable  name,  and  the  last  hours  of  more  than  one 
of  whom  I  was  enabled  to  soothe  by  the  promise  that  1  would  do  something  for 
the  little  ones  they  left  behind  them.  That  promise,  I  trust,  this  humble  effort 
may  enable  me  in  part  to  redeem.  E.  V.  M. 

&g=-  Early  orders  are  respectfully  solicited,  from  Booksellers,  Canvassers  and 
others,  to  whom  a  liberal  discount  will  be  made. 

MURPHY  <fe  Co.  Publishers,  182  Baltimore  street,  Baltimore. 


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Harris  &  Johnson,  7  vols.  Md.  Chancery  Decisions,  4  voJs. 

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